


Chaos Theory

by sirusblack



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hogwarts, I know, Multi, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Quidditch World Cup, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Slow Burn, based on the books, not the movies, slightly AU, yeah - Freeform, you get to choose who you end up in the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-06-27 20:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15692748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirusblack/pseuds/sirusblack
Summary: Like most complicated things in life, this story starts with a boy, a secret and a smile.Even in retrospect, they seem like they’ve been scribbled on a scrap piece of paper and blindly plucked from a nice, big bowl of what-else-can-the-universe-thrust-at-me for the sake of twisted arbitrary, but not everything is as it seems, and everything seems ridiculous and inconvenient. At the same time, maybe you should have seen this coming. Maybe you should have predicted the shit storm that was going to spin your life into vertigo, like the earth has been tipped off its axis, latitude and longitude slipping and colliding while the corners of the map fade to ash.It happens, as you would later realize with an impending sense of doom, like this...





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a mixture of requests on my tumblr (@ lupin-remus) plus with a twist of my own weaved into it. It's not beta'd so sorry in advance. Also...be nice peeps. I worked hard on this. Anyway I'm not exactly sure how long this will be but I hope you enjoy it :) Based on the books and not the movies, just wanna clarify that. 
> 
> Harry Potter and it's characters, as well as my soul, belongs to JK Rowling.

Like most complicated things in life, this story starts with a boy, a secret and a smile.

Even in retrospect, they seem like they’ve been scribbled on a scrap piece of paper and blindly plucked from a nice, big bowl of  _what-else-can-the-universe-thrust-at-me_ for the sake of twisted arbitrary, but not everything is as it seems, and everything seems ridiculous and inconvenient. At the same time, maybe you should have seen this coming. Maybe you should have predicted the shit storm that was going to spin your life into vertigo, like the earth has been tipped off its axis, latitude and longitude slipping and colliding while the corners of the map fade to ash.

It happens, as you would later realize with an impending sense of doom, like this:

In the summer of 1994, you and your friends stumble through the forest, looking for an old boot.

The forest breathes a cool sigh of air against your cheeks as you wander past the trees, eyes glued to the ground for the boot. Every time your mind drifts to the Quidditch World Cup, the excitement begins to bubble up inside your stomach and you can’t fight back the smile that spreads across your face whenever you reflect on the past few days. Staying at the Burrow was always like an improved version of home, but this time, it’s different somehow.

Perhaps it’s the freedom of staying somewhere that isn’t your home. Not that your place isn’t comfortable; you don’t think anyone could deem a Victorian mansion with sprawling, manicured lawns ‘uncomfortable’. But it’s starting to feel more like a sad skeleton with marble walls for skin instead of a home, especially with your father always working and your brother, Luke, staying with his Slytherin friends for the summer.

There’s something about the company, too, that makes this moment so special. Being reunited with the Weasley family and being welcomed into their home is always like visiting relatives. The good kind, who always send you postcards and Christmas sweaters. And there’s always something to catch up on with Hermione. Then there’s Harry…

You glance at Harry, who is sifting through the leaves beside you. He’s talking about…something…one hand jammed into the pocket of his jeans, the other swinging by his side, and it’s somewhat refreshing to see Harry so  _relaxed_ , so undeniably Harry. Warmth thrums through your veins like honey and you can’t help but smile as you regard him fondly in the late morning sun.

It’s been a while since you’ve shared a moment alone with your best friend. Usually, you’re joined by Ron and Hermione, but they’re currently preoccupied with a debate over…whatever they debate over. You can actually hear them bickering; Hermione’s voice tight and shrill and Ron’s sarcastic remarks muffled by the distance between you and them.

With the sound of their bickering in the background, and the warmth of Harry’s presence forming a bubble around you, the urge to chisel  _‘I love my friends’_ onto every single rib in your ribcage floods you like a wave of sunlight. It’s essentially how you feel when you’re not saving Hogwarts from corrupt teachers and giant basilisk or helping innocent fugitives escape the kiss of a Dementor. And moments like these remind you just how fortunate you are to have found your friends.

Harry’s gentle chuckle brings your wandering thoughts back into the moment as it fades into a gleeful smile.

“You should have seen the look on his face…” Harry smirks, though the context of the conversation is lost to you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now Dudley second guesses himself whenever he tries to bully me. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder because he’s expecting Sirius to jump out and turn him into – I don’t know¬– a dung beetle,” he pauses and then barks a laugh like he’s just remembered something, “Or a pig! Did I tell you about the time Hagrid gave Dudley a pigs tail?”  

“He  _didn’t_ …” you gasp, and Harry gives you an exaggerated, shit-eating grin, “ _Merlin_ , he actually did!”

“When he first told me that I was a wizard and delivered my letter to me…he used his umbrella and…” Harry mimics pointing an umbrella at a stone and pretends to cast the spell. You playfully punch his shoulder and Harry recoils with a yelp.

“ _That_  was for not telling me,” you scold, fighting back the smile that’s tickling the corners of your lips, “I thought we agreed to tell each other stupid stuff that happens to our relatives.”

Harry pouts an apology, “Can I make it up to you?”

“You can,” you smirk, “but are you prepared to pay the price?”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure I can handle it,” Harry grins.

There is a fleeting moment where the two of you stare at each other in silence, but the moment is broken with a laugh as you both dissolve into hysterical laughter. A good five minutes pass before you cradle your stomach and heave out a sigh, attempting to regain your composure. Once the remainders of your chortles and giggles fade, you notice a strange look crossing Harry’s face as he stares at you.

“What is it?” you ask, breathlessly, wiping away tears.

“(Y/N) I–”

“(Y/N)?” a curious voice asks from somewhere behind you. You swivel around at the sound of your name, lips curling into a smile when you see Cedric Diggory standing behind you.

Your mouth goes a little bit dry.

“Hi Cedric,” you smile as Cedric approaches, and you suddenly feel self-conscious and bashful.

Your eyes travel over him as he draws closer. He’s tall and broad and athletic, bronzed skin and eyes so blue you could  _drown_. His expression is one of pure delight, like stumbling upon you had been the best thing that’s happened since Christmas, and it’s so genuine it almost convinces you that it’s true. And his smile; gracious and gentle and golden–

That smile of his could cure every disease known to man.

“It’s good to see you,” He grins, boyishly, sounding genuinely pleased.

“You too,” you reply, your voice sounding distant like you’ve stepped outside of your own body and your mouth is moving on its own accord.

Cedric gazes at you with a gentle warmth, eyes as blue as a clear, summer sky, drawing you in. And there’s something inviting about his smile like his lips want to reach down and embrace yours in a tender kiss–

Harry clears his throat and it jolts through you like electricity, almost startling you “Oh, Cedric, this is Harry. Harry, this is Cedric–”

“It’s great to finally meet you now that we’re off the Quidditch field, Harry,” Cedric beams, extending his hand.

Harry takes it, “Yeah, you too…”

Cedric turns back to you, the blue in his eyes washing over you like a wave, “How was your summer?”

You put a little too much effort into a smile you hope looks graceful “Oh, um, it was…pleasant.”

“Pleasant?”

“Yeah. Harry and I have been staying with the Weasleys. How’s yours?”

“Pleasant,” He echoes, grinning, and you feel heat tickle apples of your cheeks, “I met this girl at the end of last year and she…she’s really something y’know? I can’t seem to get her off my mind…”

Cedric trails off into a sigh, gazing into your eyes. You’re reminded of a wilted fire lily pressed between the pages of a dozen letters, all of them signed off with a curling ‘ _C_ ’; long strands of amber butterbeer melting over your tongue; a spring breeze fragranced with wildflowers and the promise of romance; and a smile, soft and reassuring and setting your entire world alight in a fiery blaze of heat and passion.

Harry clears his throat again and it whips both of you back into the present.

“Looking forward to the game?” Cedric asks.

“Definitely,” you grin, excitedly, “This is Harry’s first Quidditch World Cup,”.  

“It is?” Cedric peers around you and smiles at Harry, “You’re going to love it. Especially this game; two teams at the top of their game, competing for the trophy…”

“It’ll be interesting to see who wins,” You remark, pensively, “Penelope will probably want me to write an article about the game for The Howler, no doubt.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing it,” Cedric remarks, “I admire your articles anyway.”

Your heart staggers clumsily around in your chest like someone’s reached down and yanked it up into your throat. Your face is definitely changing colours now; you can feel the heat of a bright red blush burning your cheeks like sunburn.

“Y-You do?”

“Yeah! I genuinely look forward to reading everything you write. They’re interesting and well written. I especially liked the one about the Toad Choir…”  

Your mouth flaps open as you search for words, stumbling over letters and syllables like a bashful child, “Well–uh–I–”

“–Over here, Arthur! Over here, son! I’ve found the Portkey!”

Amos Diggory’s voice split through the still air, the echo rippling through the trees and startling some sparrows.

Relieved by the distraction, you spin on your heel and follow the sound of Mr Diggory’s guffaw’s and Mr Weasley’s voice. Cedric walks on your right side, Harry on your left. It is suddenly unbearably hot like the sun is boring its fiery gaze into your soul. An itch forms on the inside of your wrist as though there was an insect wiggling beneath the thin skin. You claw at it hastily, fingers fumbling with your bracelet in an effort to distract yourself. 

Hermione and Ron join you a few minutes later while Mr Weasley introduces his family to Mr Diggory. As they talk, you can feel Hermione’s eyes moving over you as though she were micro-managing every movement that you make, like you’re pinned beneath a microscope. You turn to her, unsurprised by her expression. She raises her brows expectantly, her eyes darting between you and Cedric.

“Oh,” you bleat, turning to Cedric, “Guys, this is Cedric. Cedric, this is Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley.”

Cedric’s lips quirk into a genuine smile, “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too,” Hermione smiles gracefully.

“Yeah,” Ron agrees.  _Well, at least they can agree on something._

Mr Diggory makes his way over, clapping a hand on Cedric’s shoulder and regarding you curiously. Cedric introduces you to Mr Diggory and his lips curve into a knowing smirk.

“So you’re the writer my son can’t stop talking about,” Mr Diggory’s remark is followed by a firm handshake, “It’s good to finally meet you in the flesh, (Y/N).”

Cedric’s face flushes an intriguing shade of pink, “Dad…”

Mr Diggory barks a warm, boisterous laugh that rattles your chest, “Don’t worry, son, I don’t think she’s going anywhere soon.”

He turns to face you, his benevolent, round face beaming at you, “Cedric showed me an article you wrote about last year’s Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Beautifully written. You’re a real talent, y’know. Though I shouldn’t expect any less, given that your old man is the editor-and-chief of the Daily Prophet.”

Warmth glows beneath your cheeks as you smile bashfully at Mr Diggory, “Well, thank you, sir.”

“ _Sir_ ,” Mr Diggory echoes, followed by a single laugh that punches the air. He turns to Cedric, whose boyish features ripple between embarrassment and pride, and jabs him in the ribs, “She’s a keeper, Ced.”

Cedric winces, an adorable, pink flush blossoming across his cheeks as he fumbles to change the subject, “Er, Dad, we should probably get moving.”  

“Right you are,” Mr Diggory nods, his gaze searching for Mr Weasley amongst the throng of redheads.

As the conversation moves toward Mr Weasley and – predictably– steers toward Harry, you meet Cedric’s eyes and he offers you a bashful, apologetic smile.

You pray to God, Jesus and Merlin that he can’t hear the  _tha-thump_ of your racing heart.

* * *

 

Portkeys are, perhaps, the second worst way to travel. The first is through the Floo Network because it’s dusty and dirty but Portkeys are…sudden, and the uncomfortable tug in your stomach only makes you feel dizzy and slightly nauseous.  

Fortunately, you’re not the only one who fell face-first on the ground and consequently got a mouthful of dirt. When your vision finally stops spinning, you notice most of the Weasley family collapsed on the ground. Ron groans beside you as Hermione and Harry scramble to their feet. Mr Weasley, Mr Diggory and Cedric are the only ones standing, the latter of whom looks a little windswept. He bends down and offers you a hand.

“You alright?” he asks, concern pinching his perfectly chiselled face. You nod and bite your lip as he helps your sorry self to your feet.

You dust the dirt from your grass-stained knees and iron out your denim skirt with the palms of your hands, using it as an excuse to tame your pounding heart. Pushing your hair back, you flash Cedric a shy smile, “Thanks.”

“Happy to be of help,” Cedric grins.

“ _Of course_  you are…” George snickers from behind Cedric and Fred snorts.

Cedric swivels around and flashes a polite smile, “Pardon?”

The sun’s heat feels concentrated, baking you with the kind of heat that could shrivel a Sunday roast. The itch returns to the inside of your wrist and you nervously scratch at it with newfound intensity. 

“Oh, nothing, your  _Highness_ ,” Fred mimes an exaggerated bow, “Er, I mean, Cedric.”

“Good ol’ Ced,” George winks, glancing between you and Cedric. 

Fred claps a hand on Cedric’s shoulder, “Ric…can I call you Ric?”

“Well–”

“Anyway,” you interject before this conversation can get any more embarrassing, “We should probably get moving.”

Without even thinking, you take Cedric’s hand and lead him away from the twins, hoping to create as much distance between you and them as possible. You finally come to a stop behind Ginny and Hermione.

“That was….”

“Awkward?” you suggest.

“I was going to say ‘Interesting’, but ‘awkward’ works, too.” Cedric offers you a lazy, boyish smile. 

You realize your fingers are still interlaced with his and you jerk away from him hastily, as though he’s infected with a contagious virus, and anyone else would be offended by it but not Cedric. Instead, he eyes you with an expression that resembles amusement or intrigue or both, but he doesn’t say anything. You kind of want to leap into a barren, boundless void and hibernate in there for a few thousand years.

“So, my dad is going to hang out with his Ministry friends tonight,” Cedric begins, glancing away shyly, “He…erm…says it’s his ‘Quidditch tradition.’”

“So you’re essentially being ditched by your own dad,” you snort, “Nice.”

“Well, here’s the thing…if I say I have company then he won’t feel so bad.”

You blink at him, “What are you saying?”

Cedric smiles boyishly, “Well…I’m saying…asking, really….if you’d like to come over and we can sit around a fire and eat s’mores and just chat. I like talking to you instead of having to send an owl all the time.”

You bite your lip and nod, “Okay. So it’ll just be…us?”

“What will ‘just be us?’” Ron sidles up to the two of you, Harry following. Harry’s eyes move between you and Cedric. There is something unreadable in his gaze. 

“Oh, I was just….” Cedric flushes, as though he were internally battling something, before conceding with a somewhat forced smile “Would you guys like to meet up later tonight?”

“Sure,” Ron shrugs, “Anything to get away from them two.” He jabs a thumb at Fred and George.

“Oh we’re coming too!” George chimes, “We don’t know what it is but if it’s going to be fun, we’re there.”

“Otherwise we’ll make it fun.” Fred adds.

You turn to Cedric, who is graciously trying to stave a grimace, “Of course. You guys can come too.”

“Come along then, son.” Mr Diggory waves Cedric over, smiling at the two of you, “We’d better settle in before the game begins.”

The game isn’t for a few hours but Cedric doesn’t argue the point. Instead, he gives you a lingering look and grazes his hand against yours, “I’ll see you later on tonight.”

“See you tonight,” you call after him, grinning from ear to ear.

 _Later on tonight_ , you think with a smile. Your mind pulls apart the words and stitches them back together, your heart singing like a dove in your ribcage.

* * *

 

Out of the hundreds of wizards and witches gathered on the camping grounds, you just  _have_  to run into a familiar, blonde-haired  _prat_ , like he’s a rather annoying shadow.

Whether you like it or not, Draco Malfoy is always there, just waiting to claw his hands into whatever is left of your optimism for the day and tear it to shreds. You can’t even go on a walk with your friends without him popping out of a bush or crawling out of some den like a predator. Even if you’re soaring on a high from Cedric’s earlier invitation, Malfoy almost insists on wiggling his way under your skin. He’s an irritation you haven’t learned how to scratch yet.

You nudge Harry in the ribs when you spot the boy, nodding in Malfoy’s direction. Thankfully, it’s just the four of you, and you remember with a sense of relief that Mr Weasley isn’t here. You don’t want a repetition of what happened the last time he encountered a Malfoy, even if he  _is_  a miniature one.

But before either of you can react, Malfoy has already spotted you and he’s swaggering over to the four of you with a malicious glint dancing in his cold, blue eyes before you can formulate a plan of escape. 

“I knew I could smell something foul,” Malfoy scorns, crinkling his nose, “You can smell a Weasley from a mile away from the stench that reeks off them. I suppose you  _all_  can’t afford to take showers every day since there’s so many of you. Got to save water now, don’t we?”

Draco snickers gleefully as Ron’s fists curl at his sides. His face is flushed crimson with anger as Hermione grips his wrist warningly.

“Malfoy,” Harry spits, his tone cold and venomous, “The only putrid smell around here is  _you_.”

“Please, Potter, don’t play pretend,” Draco sneers, “Just because no one knocked any sense into you doesn’t mean we have to put up with the peasant and the mudblood.”

“You watch your mouth, Malfoy!” Ron snarls, “Before I break it in with my fist.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Draco smirks, challengingly.

“We all know you’re a coward,” Harry snaps, “Your dad isn’t here so you don’t have to prove your worth anything.”

Draco’s expression darkens, “What would  _you_  know about fathers,  _your_  father is dead.”

Harry moves to lunge at Draco but Hermione pulls him back. You can almost feel the loathing rolling off Harry as his mouth twists into a frown and his eyes light up like emerald flames. You turn to Draco, imploring him with a pleading look.  

“Look, you’re wasting all of our time. We’ve got better things to do…”

Draco sniffs, fixing a glare on you, “You’re lucky you’ve got your pretty, little girlfriend here to protect you, Potter. Next time, I’ll make sure you’re not so fortunate.”

Draco whirls around and leaves before any of you can say another word.

“Good riddance,” Ron spits, his temper simmering, “He always has to ruin everything…”

Hermione rolls her eyes, “Don’t let stuck-up snobs like Malfoy put you down. It’s the World Cup. Forget about it.”

Hermione drags Ron away, charging through the crowd. You’re about to follow her, too, but notice that Harry is rooted to the ground where he stands. You put a hand on his shoulder and rub soothing circles, hoping to release some tension.

“Forget about Malfoy, Harry,” you smile, “Let’s enjoy the moment and look forward to the game…”  _and spending the night with Cedri_ c your mind whispers as your heart leaps excitedly.

Harry offers you a weary half-smile as you take his hand, tracing comforting circles across the top of his thumb. He’s always been good at deflecting Malfoy’s attacks. But there’s something ominous in the way he stares at you that has you thinking that maybe this isn’t over. 

You don’t bother to bring it up, though, hoping Harry will release it with all his other worries.

* * *

 


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who has commented and left kudos on my smol lil fic. You don't actually realise how much that means to me...to think that you're taking the time to read and show your appreciation is priceless. Thank you. 
> 
> Just a side note: I won't be able to post the next chapter for a couple of weeks as I will be away. However, I will be posting two chapters in one go upon my return. Until then, enjoy the next chapter!!

There is something pleasantly sweet about Cedric Diggory’s smile.

It’s gentle and unassuming; a perfect display of pearly-white teeth framed by soft, kissable lips. Sometimes, it reaches his eyes and gives off a warm radiance that you could bask in for an eternity. Sometimes, it tickles the corners of his lips in a subtle display of sincerity. But it always,  _always_ , has an effect on you that you can’t exactly describe.

You’re not sure if it’s because you’re drunk on adrenaline from the Quidditch World Cup or you’re just being sentimental, but you feel as though you’ve drowned a cauldron of amortentia and the potion bubbles frantically inside your stomach whenever Cedric so much as glances your way.

Your eyes can’t help but drift over to him like you’re a compass and he’s true north. At the moment, he’s laughing and chatting animatedly with the rest of your friends, but there are secret moments shared between the two of you where your gazes clash and linger with a sense of longing. You can’t help but wonder if it will always be like this; stealing glances at each other from across the room but neither of you taking the first step.

You hope that one day, you’ll be brave enough to break the pattern.

You decide to try and distract yourself by trying to soak up the moment. Most of the Weasley clan bar Mr. Weasley are gathered around a large fire and joined by Fred and George’s friend, Lee Jordan. The host, Cedric, sits between Bill Weasley and Harry, who looks a little tense around the shoulders. You’re about to get up and join them but your brother, Luke, playfully jabs you with his elbow and nods in the direction of your gaze.

“Like something you see over there?” His voice is teasing and condescending and the knowing smirk that goes with it jolts the itch on the inside of your wrist to life. You resist the temptation to scratch it, instead choosing to narrow your eyes on your brother.

“No. I was simply…observing the campfire.”

“Were you now?”

“Yes.”

Luke shakes his head, amused by your obvious attempt at a lie, “You’re lying.”

The irritation begs to be scratch, practically pleading for you to peel the skin back and plunge your nails into the flesh.

“No I’m not.”

Luke sighs in mock disappointment, “You truly are a  _terrible_  liar. I thought I taught you better…” 

You work your jaw, “Might I remind you that you crashed our party because all of your friends are drunk and high, and you didn’t want to spend the night alone?”

Luke shrugs, his grin lopsided, “What can I say? They’re all lightweights…amateurs. And don’t change the subject.”

He wags a finger at you in the same way a scolding parent might, and you bat it away with a sigh. You roll your eyes at him and throw your arms up in surrender. Luke pumps a fist into the air and grins triumphantly.

“Why are you  _serpents_  always so perceptive?” You grumble, scowling at your brother.

“It’s a curse,” he chortles and shrugs, “Besides, that’s what future lawyers like me do; we perceive things and stick our noses where they don’t belong.”

You give a very loud snort, “That’s presuming you’re actually smarter than you look.”

Luke clutches his chest in mock offence, “That’s a low blow, even for you.”

You shrug through nonchalance, though you can feel Cedric’s eyes on you again and you have to fight every single cell in your mortal body not to look or you might as well turn into a pillar of salt.

“He’s looking at you right now, y’know,” Luke playfully nudges your shoulder with his own, “What are you going to say to him?”

“I…” you pause, realizing you’re at a loss for words, “…I don’t know–? I mean, what can I say, really. He’s  _him_  and I’m  _me_  and we both have responsibilities…especially since this is his last year and–”

“–wait, what are you talking about?” Luke interjects, brows knitted together in confusion.

You give him a quizzical look “It’s Cedric’s last year…”

Luke studies you for a long time, a familiar expression filling out his features. It’s the same look he wears when he’s piecing a puzzle together, or if he’s deciding whether something is genuine. You can almost see the wheels and cogs hissing and turning in his head, like you’ve peeled back his scalp and peered into his skull, watching the electrical currents scuttle along the network of synapses in his brain.

“Who–who did you think I was talking about?” You ask, slowly, in a voice filled with caution. Luke’s lips quirk into a smile, flashing a row of pearly-white teeth.

“Well–”

“-Luke, buddy, where’ve you been?” A slurred voice booms through the air, it’s owner emerging from the shadows shortly after. Caleb Jin stumbles into view, a crooked smile spread across his lips, “We’ve been looking everywhere for bro…”

He stops, realizing that Luke isn’t alone. For the first time since he’s arrived, he’s noticed you and your friends, and he gives a teasing, sarcastic salute.

“Ah, finally nice to meet the _pretty_ one,” he winks and tries to smirk. It’s as appealing as a limp piece of celery. “Now all I have to do is meet the other three and I’ve met the whole set…”

“He must be pretty wasted if he’s referring to Hermione, Ron, Harry and I like we’re collectable chocolate frog cards,” you note, watching as Caleb begins to unbuckle his belt.

Luke winces, “Yeah…though I’m 66.6% sure he’s being serious.”

“What?” you bleat and Luke shakes his head.  

“I’d…better make sure he gets back to his tent safely…” he murmurs, rising from his seat, “I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”

You nod at your older brother and watch as he waves goodnight to everyone and saunters up to Jacob, slinging an arm across Caleb's shoulders to support him.

“Bye,  _pretty one_ ,” Caleb waves at you hopefully. You wave back and hear him cheering in the distance.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” you announce as you turn back to your friends, “Thanks for tonight…”

“Already?” Harry asks, somewhat disappointed in your decision to leave, “It’s barely ten o’clock.”

“Still, I better go. We’ve got a long trip tomorrow.”

“I think I’ll come, too,” says Hermione, climbing to her feet and walking toward you.

“Oh, come off it, Hermione, you’re probably going to go and read or do nerdy stuff like study,” Fred flaps a hand at her dismissively.

“And what’s wrong with that?” she snaps, hands planted on her hips.

“We should take you back to bed as well, Gin,” Bill interrupts, rising from his spot in the grass. Ginny folds her arms across her chest indignantly.

“But I’m not tired!” she moans, and Bill narrows his eyes on her.

“It’s late, Ginny. We’ve all got to get up early to make it back home in time for breakfast.”

Ginny turns to Charlie, pleading him with an imploring look. Charlie grimaces, as though he’s fighting the urge to concede to her wishes, “Bill’s right, Gin.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the  _fun_  brother,” Ginny grumbles as she stands, pushing her hair off her glowering face.

“Hey!” Fred and George exclaim in unison and Ginny waves a hand at them.  

“I’ll walk you guys back,” Cedric springs to his feet.

“No need,” you blurt, your hurried response embarrassingly shrill.

“Oh, but I insist.” Cedric smiles, and the way it curls transfigures your spine into a strand of spaghetti. Your mouth flaps open to protest, but Hermione interjects before you can say anything more.

“That would be nice,” she smiles graciously, but the way it pinches the corners of her lips suggests that she’s scheming. You narrow your eyes on her suspiciously, and she shrugs innocently. Ginny stomps over to you and Hermione and Cedric leads you away from the campfire.

“It’s been a really lovely night,” Hermione smiles as the three of you stroll toward the Weasleys’ tent.

“It has,” Cedric agrees with another gracious smile ( _Curse him_ ), “The game was thrilling and the company…” He glances shyly at you, “…well, I don’t think I would have enjoyed it very much without you.”

You notice Hermione and Ginny exchange a look and by the way Hermione’s shoulders tremble, you suspect they’re stifling giggles.

“Well I’m certainly glad I came,” you say, fighting back the warmth in your cheeks.

Cedric’s eyes linger on you for a moment, dancing between your eyes and your lips, “As am I.”

_Does he want to–?_

“Well it’s certainly made me realize why the boys love Quidditch so much,” Hermione admits, and you can hear a faint teasing tone in her voice, “It’s all rather thrilling, isn’t it?”

“Thrilling indeed,” Cedric remarks, “Never thought the Weasley Twins would predict the outcome of the game.”

“They’re smarter than they look,” you joke, “Though I think they learned their lesson.”

Cedric raises a brow, “And that is?”

“Never make deals with the devil.”

“Or someone just as trustworthy as they are,” Hermione adds, “Which is not trustworthy at all.”

A gentle laugh trickles from Cedric’s lips and curls in the air, “I suppose they had that coming.”

The conversation soon steers toward the upcoming year. You and Ginny exchanged a pained look, but before you can change the subject, Hermione has launched into a lecture about what she’s anticipating the most.

As she rambles, Cedric’s hand grazes against yours, long fingers reaching out tentatively to tickle the skin of your hand. Your heart floats in your chest as though someone had untied the arteries and veins attached to it and set it free. You imagine it drifting around like a helium balloon after it’s string have been snipped; lighter than air, ascending into the milky white clouds of heaven.

Eventually, you arrive at the tent. Ginny bids Cedric a curt ‘goodnight’ before marching into the tent. Hermione turns to you wearing a smile of her own.

“Well, Good night,” she smirks suggestively, her eyes flicking toward you and Cedric before she disappears into the tent. You and Cedric loiter in the awkward silence, wondering who will break it first.

“I really did mean it when I said that I was happy you came,” Cedric finally says, smiling, and you realize with a delighted thrill that it was more than just a compliment. It was  _genuine_.  

You chew your bottom lip, biting down on a goofy grin, “And I had no reason to doubt you.”

Cedric studies you for a long moment like he’s trying to draw the edges of your face on the canvas in his mind. His tongue darts out to slide across the cushion of his bottom lip and you wonder if he knows how handsome he is when he does that or if he can hear the blood rushing through your veins at the sight of it.

“You know, it’s nice to see you smiling again,” he finally says.

A wave of embarrassment drenches you in an uncomfortable warmth that burns beneath your cheeks as you recall the last time you saw Cedric. You remember the heat of the day; the air hot and sticky and sweetly perfumed with the scent of salt and butterbeer. Imaginary tears ghost over the rosy-pink skin of your cheeks and stain your lips with salt. Your hand moves to wipe tears that aren’t there.

“Yes I–I never did thank you for…what you said. So…thank you.” You stumble for words, your cheeks practically aching from all the bashful smiles.

“No need to thank me,” he smiles, “I’m just glad that you’re doing better.”

More awkward silence, filled only with the distant, drunken cheers of the Irish wafting over the campsite like a bad smell. You and Cedric shift awkwardly in the moment, eyes darting everywhere in a shy dance of  _will I?_   _should I?_  before you shatter the moment with a quick nod.

“I should probably start writing my article,” you blurt, tucking a stray ribbon of hair behind your ear.

“Already?” Cedric asks, brows raised, “Talk about commitment…”

“What can I say?” you shrug, smiling, “Sleep when you’re dead, right?”

“I wish my teammates were as passionate about Quidditch as you are about writing,” Cedric says, eyes roving over you in awe. “Well, I guess this is goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”  

You turn quickly and move to retreat into your tent but your feet stop in their tracks, hesitating outside the folds. And, before you realise what you’re doing before you can even talk yourself out of it, you’re spinning on your heel and turning toward Cedric, reaching up and planting a tender kiss on his cheek. It’s decidedly chaste since it doesn’t seem appropriate to snog Cedric yet, but the warmth of his smooth skin against your lips is rather intoxicating, and there is a moment where you want to move a few inches over to kiss his lips but you don’t.

It leaves more of an impression than you expected, and you watch as a bright pink hue stains the exact spot where your lips had made contact with his cheek, the colour blossoming like wildflowers in the spring. It’s an adorable boyish look, and you admire for the millionth time how handsome he is, even in the low light. Even when bashful and unprepared and surprised.

Cedric beams, and it looks like he’s swallowed the sun. “Well, er – see you in the morning?”

You nod, biting your lip as Cedric begins to walk backwards as though he can’t peel his eyes away from you, his expression fixed as though he’s in a trance.  He stumbles unceremoniously into a tent and issues out a string of mumbled apologies, making you giggle.

 _Yeah_ , you think, your fingers moving to brush across your lips, the warmth of his cheek still ghosting over them, excitement bubbling up inside of you and bursting like a balloon filled with liquid sunlight,  _See you in the morning._

* * *

 

You’re not sure when you fell asleep exactly. Between working on your article for the school newsletter and the almost dreamlike night you had experienced with Cedric, it was a wonder you even slept at all. But your sleep is broken by two trembling hands shaking you awake, and you emerge from the cloudy greyness of sleep to find Hermione’s face looming over you.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“We have to get Mr Weasley,” Hermione whispers, her voice low, “We have to get out of here!”

“Why?” you ask, but then a scream pierces the air like the high-pitched shriek of shattering glass, and the heavy thrum of what sounds like a crowd of people tripping over themselves fills your ears.

Hermione gestures toward the tent’s folds, “Have a look for yourself.”

Yanking your nightgown off the bedpost, you wrap it around your pyjamas and poke your head out of the tent, your eyes widening in horror.

The campsite has been thrust into a world of pandemonium. Screams of terror cloud the air like a fog as stampede witches and wizards clamber past, retreating into the surrounding forest for safety. A large crowd of hooded wizards chases them into the wood, laughing and hooting as various bursts of light streak through the air like bullets. The air is thick and heavy with smoke and dust, rubble smouldering and tents burning.

Perhaps the worst part of it all is the four figures twisting and turning mid-air as though suspended by imaginary strings. The hooded wizards are puppeteering them into grotesque positions. Two of the figures are children.

Somehow, you don’t think you’re going to see Cedric in the morning.  

You clamp a hand over your mouth as you watch the scene unfold.  

“How cruel do you have to be to prey on  _children_ ,” Ginny mutters darkly, gripping her wand tightly, “We have to help them.”

“No,” you snip, grasping Ginny’s wrist and yanking her back, “Us three against a crowd of wizards? Ginny, we’ll die. We have to be  _strategic_  about this…”

You release your grasp on Ginny and she turns to Hermione, whose brows are furrowed in thought. “(Y/N)’s right. The proper authorities will be here soon. They’re trained to do this sort of stuff.”

Fire rages in the dark depths of her chocolate-brown eyes and she forces out a sharp huff as though she were breathing plumes of smoke, “Well we can’t just let them torture those muggles!”

“There’s nothing else we can do,” Hermione says, composedly, “If we try to help them, we will  _all_  die.”

Ginny’s mouth twists into a thin frown like she wants to argue the point but doesn’t. Instead, she concedes with a curt nod of her head. Guilt twinges in your chest.  

“For what it’s worth, you really are a force to be reckoned with,” you remark, giving her a half-hearted smile. Ginny beams proudly, “Just…remember to choose your battles wisely.”

Ginny perks up at that, straightening her spine and squaring her shoulders. Hermione glances at you furtively, a warm smile tugging the corners of her lips. The touching scene is interrupted by Mr Weasley as he bursts through the tent’s entrance, eyes wide and voice tainted with an unnerving tone of panic.

“Good, you’re up,” He notes, eyes darting between the three of you, “We need to leave.  _Now_.”

The three of you follow Mr Weasley out of the tent and spot Ron and Harry standing close by, both of them just as horrified as you are. You rush up to Harry, and a warm feeling of relief sinks into your skin.

“Bil, Charlie. Take them into the forest and wait for me there. I’m going to see what I can do to help.”

Bill and Charlie nod as Mr Weasley hurries off. They lead the group of you toward the forest, and as you reach the fringe of the woods, you and the others turn back to watch the scene. A group of Ministry members have their wands drawn out and directed at the group, attempt to diffuse the situation with words, though it doesn’t seem like they’re achieving much at all.

You bite your lip, eyes scanning the crowds for Luke, praying to every known god that he is safe. You don’t think you could lose him, too.

“We should keep moving…” Ron murmurs to you and you nod. Hermione gently pats your shoulder, massaging into the tense muscles.

“He’s going to be okay,” she whispers, as though she had read your thoughts, “I saw one of his mates earlier. He’s probably with them…”

“Yeah, you’re right. He’ll be fine. He can take care of himself,” you say, trying to convince yourself that it’s true. Hermione takes your hand and leads you into the Forrest.

The four of you walk in a tense silence, listening to the worried murmurs and distant screams filling the air around you. The shadows of the night cloud around you like ravenous demons as you walk further into the woods, but you keep your hand in Hermione’s as she leads you deeper and deeper.

Your thoughts sprint through the events of the night, anxiety churning inside of you and awakening the itch on your wrist. What if Luke got hurt in all the commotion? Where is Cedric? Is Mr Weasley going to be okay?

Hermione squeezes your hand, as though she can read your thoughts. Behind you, Ron yelps in pain. You stop abruptly, Harry very nearly crashing into you.  

“Ah, shit.” He mumbles and you squint at the forest floor, only just making out Ron’s lanky figure.

“What happened?” Hermione asks, anxiously, blinking through the darkness, “Where are you? Oh, this is stupid,  _Lumos_.”

A narrow beam of light pours from the tip of her wand, lighting up the winding path. Ron lies, sprawled, on the floor, dry leaves and dirt sprinkled in his hair. You swallow the urge to laugh and help him to his feet.

“I tripped on a tree root,” Ron mutters, angrily. He dusts the dirt from his knees and Hermione picks the twigs from his hair.

“Well, with feet that size I suppose it’d be hard not to,” an oily voice drawls from behind you and rage surges through your veins like rivers of lava.

Draco Malfoy leans against a tree, his demeanour visibly taunting. He’s calm and composed, radiating the same, ugly energy that usually reeks off of him. You narrow your eyes on him and speak without thinking.

“Well you know what they say about wizards with big feet,” you glance at his feet and raise a brow, “And  _yours_  look kind of  _small_.”

Ron snorts.

Draco’s nostrils flare.

In all honesty, you have no idea how big Draco’s feet are, but you’re satisfied with the look of offence and disdain that crosses Draco’s face.

“What’s that?” Draco cups his ear, “I can’t hear you from all the way down there.”

Ron steps forward protectively, “Fuck off, Malfoy.”

“ _Language_ , Weasley,” Malfoy drawls, his pale eyes glittering maliciously, “Or do you have to eat slugs again for you to finally learn your lesson?”

“What do you want?” Harry snarls.

“I’m just trying to find a good seat,” Malfoy shrugs, lazily, “Though you’ll probably want to hide the mudblood.”

“Shut your mouth, Malfoy!” Ron shouts, “Or I’ll have to do it for you.”

“That is the second time you’ve threatened to do so today,” Malfoy sneers, “Yet here I am.”

“Oh this is so  _pathetic_ ,” Hermione snaps, “Let’s  _go_.”

“The only thing that is pathetic here is you, Granger,” Draco spits, eyes narrowing like a snake eying its prey, “If you ask me, you should be out there with the muggles they’re torturing.”  

“Oh, shut up,” Harry snaps, “You’re only saying that because you feel threatened by her superiority.”

A cold, metallic laugh splits through the air, lacking amusement and warmth, “ _Please_  Potter, who are you trying to impress with these two charity cases? Your parents? Because we  _all_ know how that’s going to work out.”

“Alright, this has gone far enough,” Hermione says, composedly, “Let’s go.”

“What’s going on here?” says a familiar voice, and relief fills you up like sea water.

Luke steps into the light of Hermione’s wand, and you launch yourself into his arms. He returns the hug, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer, breathing into your hair. You hold him close, clinging onto him like you might crumble. He’s okay.  _Everything will be okay._

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you murmur, eyes wet with unshed tears, “I can’t lose you, too.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do without me,” Luke teases, untangling himself from your embrace. His smile is loose but genuine.

Draco straightens, his casual demeanour shifting immediately. He’s nothing but talk, especially when a teacher or someone with authority arrives. And Luke is that person right now; a Slytherin prefect with an impeccable reputation.

“Draco,” Luke regards him with a simple nod, “I’ll see you at school.”

Draco nods wordlessly. As Luke and your friends move to walk deeper into the woods, you turn to Draco and stare at him curiously.

“What made you so cold and dead on the inside, Draco?” you ask, and Draco’s face falls. For once, he can’t come back with a retort, and you leave him staring into the darkness, completely speechless.

* * *

 

The walk home from the Quidditch World Cup somehow feels longer than the journey there.

You all walk in silence, too tired to even string a proper sentence together. You sluggishly trail down the road, exhaustion slowing you down as though it had hooked a rope around your waist and was yanking you back. You rub your eyes, stomach growling, limbs heavy as your mind sprints through the events of the long, chaotic night.

Through all of it, the Dark Mark still haunts your thoughts like it’s still looming over you like some sort of cruel god of pandemonium. The return of the Death Eaters has everyone on edge, as though their all denying a simple yet terrifying truth.

Fortunately, you had caught up with Cedric before you left. He promised to send an owl as soon as he arrived home. You would have liked to chat with him for longer if it weren’t for Fred and George, who tried to lure him into buying one of their ‘experimental candies.’ 

Harry gravitates toward you, his expression unreadable, “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you sigh through the lie, “Just tired. You?”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs, “So…how did you meet Cedric…?”

The sound of his name jolts through you, and you suddenly feel more awake. “Oh, well, we met last year and we just…clicked.”

“Clicked, huh?” Harry echoes, though his voice has a slight edge to it, “That’s…good.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Nice of him to walk you back to the tent, too.”

Your brows knit together as you study Harry’s expression, “Where are you going with this?”

“Nowhere,” Harry snaps, his voice cracking sharply like a whip, “I’m just saying it was nice of him to walk you back…”

“Well, he didn’t just walk me back.”

“I know–”

“¬–and why bring this up after the night we’ve just had?”

“Because–”

“–Because what?”

“You’re not giving me a chance to answer!”

“Well if you’d just hurry up and spit it out–”

“Would you two shut it? We’re nearly there!” Ginny interrupts, pointing into the distance. Ron and Hermione stare at you like they’re cataloguing your every move. They tear their eyes away and exchange a glance.

If you were less tired, you would have questioned them. Instead, you ignore them and turn back to Harry. He isn’t paying attention anymore, his mouth twisted into a frown as he glares at the Burrow. You can tell by his expression that he doesn’t want to talk anymore, and you cross your arms, deciding it’s better not to.

Picking up your pace, you catch up with Fred and George and the three of you chat lightly as you slowly approach the Burrow. It’s faint, but you think you hear a grumbled protest from behind you, and you glance over your shoulder to find Ron, Hermione and Harry arguing quietly amongst themselves.

_What are they up to?_

Your thoughts are interrupted by a relieved Mrs Weasley, who rushes up to the group of you and throws herself into Mr Weasley’s arms.

“Oh thank goodness you’re alright,” she mutters, squeezing him tight. A copy of this morning’s Daily Prophet falls from her grasp, slightly screwed from where she had been gripping it. You pick it up and flatten it out while Mrs Weasley pulls her children into a bear hug.

 _SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP_  the headline reads in large, bold letters. An image of the Dark Mark floats beside it, and a twinge of fear plucks the centre of your chest as the memory of last night flashes in front of your eyes. Shudders rattle your spine.

“This isn’t good…” you murmur.

“Well, obviously,” Harry grumbles from behind you, his tone dripping with sardonic venom, and you jump, slightly startled. He stands behind you, reading over your shoulder, and he’s close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath fanning across the nape of your neck. A different type of chill shoots through you like electricity.  

“Lets – er – go in and have breakfast…” Ron suggests, glancing uneasily at Hermione. Harry grits his jaw and shakes his head, snatching the Daily Prophet out of your grip. He marches inside with Ron on his heel, but Hermione lingers behind.

“What has gotten into him?” you snip, and Hermione gives you a strange look, as though she knows more than what she’s letting on.

“We’re all just a little bit tired and hungry,” she sighs, patting a reassuring hand on your shoulder, “But don’t worry about it for now. Come on, let’s have something to eat.”

 _Don’t worry about it for now,_  you mentally repeat as you follow her inside,  _that’s easier said than done._


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyy I’m back! Two things: 1) chapter four will be posted on Friday as I realised I wouldn’t be able to finish it tonight 2) the ending is a little rushed and different to what I originally had (I had to change it at the last minute because it was taking way too long). No Cedric in this chapter :( But lots of time with the other characters?? idk. Anyway, enjoy. 
> 
> i'm not super duper happy with this chapter btw. but i hope y'all enjoy it anyway.

You wake up to the sound of voices murmuring in the room next door.

You hadn’t been sure at first; the thunderous pounding resonating inside your skull is distorting your perception of time and space and making it painfully difficult to navigate your thoughts. The glare of afternoon sunlight slanting through Ginny’s window is making you think someone has literally dialled up the sun’s brightness a few thousand notches and your mouth feels like you’ve dry-swallowed a cotton ball.

You groan into your pillow and try to move but realize you’ve subconsciously rolled yourself into a giant sushi roll to cope with your headache, so you lay in your cocoon and stare at the ceiling for a moment.

The quiet conversation in the next room has now escalated to murmured arguing like they’re battling to keep their voices down. You realise that the voices belong to Harry, Luke, Hermione and Ron. Your brows knit together in confusion.  _When did Luke get here? What are they talking about without me? Why are they arguing?_

Footsteps echo across the floorboards and a door creaks shut, quietly concluding the argument. You decide you’ll ask them about it later. For now, you really need to shower and take a healing potion for your head.

Untangling yourself from the sheets, you stand on trembling legs and hold your head in your hands as it angrily throbs in protest. The room spins as you stagger out of the room and nearly collide with a broad chest.

“Good afternoon (Y/N),” Ron beams, affectionately patting your head. On any other day, you would have embraced this ritualistic greeting between you and Ron with a witty remark but the sharp, prickling pain emanating from the top of your scalp is blurring your vision and dousing your sense of humour. Ron seems to realize this, and he hastily jerks his hand away, “Oh, sorry. Are you okay? You look like shit.”

“I’m just peachy,” you drawl, “Having the time of my life here.”

Ron flashes an apologetic smile, “Sorry. I’ll go down and see if mum has any healing potion left. It looks as though you could do with a few cauldrons,” you scowl at him as he continues, “Oh, everyone is outside, including Luke. He came over earlier today. When you’re feeling better, you should come out and join us.”

Ron moves to automatically pat your head again but thinks better of it, and he races down the stairs instead, calling out to Mrs Weasley. 

You retreat into the bathroom, shut the door and switch the hot water on. Hot water hisses from the shower head, filling up the small room in clouds of white steam as you slide out of your pyjamas and climb into the shower cubicle. Breathing in the thick air, you step under the stream of water and sigh as you feel your headache instantly recoil into the base of your skull.

During your slightly longer-than-necessary shower, you choose to reflect on everything that has led up to this moment. The excitement that had melted into fear and confusion, the chaste kiss on Cedric’s cheek, the Death Eaters, the Dark Mark, thinking you had lost Luke and the relief that had flooded you when you realized you hadn’t, Winky’s terrified face and large, glassy eyes, Harry’s sour attitude; everything about the past twenty-four hours twists inside of you like thousands of rattle snakes writhing at once.

No wonder you got a headache.

At least you could glean Cedric’s latest letter away from the tumultuous mess of the past few hours. It had arrived as soon as you had settled in for breakfast and you recall with a smile his curling words that had brought a cathartic sense of comfort. Cedric seems to know exactly what to say at the right time to make you feel better when you’re at your lowest point.

 _I’m sorry that we didn’t get to spend more time together, but I promise I’ll make it up to you_ , he had written, and everything about that very sentence seemed to light up a million possibilities inside you.

Smiling, you turn the faucet off and step out of the shower, careful not to slip, as your mind drifts to the hundreds of different fantasies you had dreamt up of Cedric. All the typical, romantic stuff comes to mind: Holding hands, slow dancing beneath a sky full of stars, laughing and smiling so much you feel like your face is going to split in half. The nervous, teenage energy replaced with the comfortable feeling of home and kisses so sweet that honey turns to ash. It’s almost like a teenage dream.

 _It_ is _a teenage dream._

You bite down on your bottom lip and search for your clothes as you imagine what it’d be like at your wedding; Cedric in his dashing dress robes wearing that smile that lights up every dark corner in the world; Hermione – your maid of honour – standing beside you, sobbing tears of happiness; Ron patting your head affectionately and giving you an encouraging smile and Harry…Harry in fancy dress robes, relaxed in that way that looks so very natural and disarming, emerald green eyes alight and soft lips curling into a smile–

_Oh, shit._

You slap a hand across your forehead.  _Where the hell is my bra?_

You push open the bathroom door and poke your head around it, peering down the empty corridor. Maybe if you could make a mad, naked dash–

_No. Better play it safe._

You pull on your clothes and sprint out of the bathroom, rushing to your bag and snatching the bra sitting on top of it. How had you missed it?  Without really thinking, you move to rush back into the bathroom when you collide with a tall figure for the second time in one day. You look up to find startling green eyes staring down at you.

“Sorry, (Y/N),” Harry mumbles, taking a step back from you, “Are you doing anything at the moment?”

You cross your arms over your chest and hide your bra between them, “Actually–”

“–I was just going to apologise for this morning,” Harry mutters, his hand flying through his hair, “I was a being a jerk and it’s all my fault.”

He flashes an awkward smile. Something about him seems…different. Distant, almost, like he’s mentally preoccupied with something else.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, carefully drawing a smile across your face, “It’s nothing. Really.”

Harry nods. Fidgets with his glasses. Licks his lips and flashes another small smile, “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Great.”

Silence, only the distant cheers of the Weasley family echoing through the house.

Harry runs a hand through his hair, expelling nervous energy. His eyes linger on you for a moment before flicking to the arms crossed over your chest. You squeeze a little tighter, hoping you’re covering up as much as possible, praying that he doesn’t notice and you don’t recall a time when it’s ever been this  _awkward_ –

Harry’s mouth flaps open and he blushes. You realize a moment too late that you’re no longer holding your bra.

“Oh,” he bleats, and he swoops down to pick it up before you can move, “I–er–”

“Sorry,” you sigh, and just as you’re about to take the bra from his grasp, Fred and George Weasley bound up the stairs.

“Kinky,” Fred smirks, devilishly, “Finally making a move now, Harry?”

Your cheeks feel as though you’ve smeared them in hot sauce like some sort of face cream.

“Never forget these wise words: Don’t be silly, protect that willy!” George adds, and they snicker gleefully, “Seriously, though. If you’re ever in doubt, remember my voice.”

“We’re way too handsome to be Uncles,” Fred grins, “And as shrewd, old men, we are morally obligated to warn you of the dangers of unprotected hanky-panky; unwanted pregnancies, STD’s–”

“While we initially thought that you probably don’t have an STD,” George intercepts, “We don’t really know what might be lurking down there in the Chamber of Secrets…”

“The literal one,” Fred adds, hastily, “Not the figurative one.”

“The figurative one?” Harry asks, confused and blushing several shades of pink.

“You’ll understand one day,” George claps a hand on Harry’s shoulder, “We’ll debrief you when you’re older.”  

“Plus, we’re not entirely sure what Ron could have picked up along the way,” a wince pinches Fred’s face as he continues, “I wouldn’t go too close to him or his kissing bear.”

“His kissing bear?” you raise a brow, trying to decipher the twin’s confusing antics.

“You didn’t hear it from us,” Fred winks. George gives Harry’s shoulder a firm, playful squeeze and they whirl away, sniggering deviously as they saunter down the corridor toward their room.

You and Harry stand in an itchy silence, your mind racing for things to say to lighten the moment. It feels unbearably hot, like tongues of fire are climbing up your neck. You realise you’ve been clawing nervously at your wrist, the skin red from where you’ve been scratching.

Harry breaks out of his stupor, awkwardly gesturing toward the stairs.

“I’m going to–”  

“Yeah,” you smile nervously.

“I’ll see you out there.” Harry moves toward the stairs.

“Wait! My–”

Harry fumbles with the bra, “Sorry. Here.”

He tosses it toward you and you catch it by the strap. By the time you look up to thank him, Harry is gone.

You rush into the bathroom, kick the door shut and brace your back against the closed door. When did things get so  _awkward_ between the two of you? Your friendship with Harry had always been very natural like you had been friends in another lifetime. You had always relied on each other, supporting each other and working symbiotically, knowing with strong conviction that he would be there in the same way that you had been for him all these years.

_So why does it feel like I’m losing him?_

* * *

***

After your shower and your strange encounter with Harry, you found that the headache reduced from a loud throbbing to a distant prickle in the base of your skull. Still present, but manageable. You feel a lot clearer anyhow.

Changing into a white camisole and a simple slip dress, you follow your nose and head down to the heart of the Burrow: the kitchen. As predicted, Mrs Weasley is cooking up a storm, and it seems as though she’s roped a glum-looking Ginny into helping.

“Hey Gin,” you smile at her, “Need any help?”

“Nah,” Ginny sighs, “Mum will probably just shoo you out anyway. She doesn’t want guests feeling ‘obligated’ to help out. Nice outfit by the way. Loving the new shoes, though I wouldn’t expect anything less from the  _pretty_  one.”

“Thanks,” You glance down at your converses and a twinge of guilt plucks your chest. Ginny has never had anything ‘new’ aside from her wand. It must make her feel worse about herself. You iron out the dress with your palms, and fiddle with the hem that flirts around the skin of your thigh, “Well if you need any help, just let me know.”

“Of course,” Ginny says, staring wistfully out the window, “Though I can’t see why anyone would want to be stuck in the kitchen when it’s such a magical afternoon. By the way, a letter came for you!” she reaches into her pocket and digs out a crumpled envelope, “I was meant to take this up to your room while you were in the shower, but I got stuck here.”

You pluck the letter from her grasp and wedge it between your bra, winking at Ginny. Ginny snorts loudly, just as Mrs Weasley enters the dining room.

“Good afternoon dear,” Mrs Weasley smiles warmly at you, “I trust you slept well? I’ve got some healing potion for you that should fix your headache up. You were absolutely exhausted when you got home this morning, I thought you were going to face plant on your plate.”

Mrs Weasley hands you a small vial of healing potion and you down it in one gulp, grimacing as the thick liquid putters down your throat. Ginny grins wickedly.

“It must be all those fancy shmancy manners you snobs get taught at etiquette school.”

“You’re one to talk, Miss Ginevra Molly lets-see-how-many-burping-competitions-I-can-start-between-Fred-and-George-Weasley.”  

Ginny cringes at the sound of her full name, “If you say my full name again, I won’t hesitate to poison your food with one of Fred and Georges ‘Runny Bears’.”

“Oh do talk properly, Ginevra, no one knows what a ‘Runny Bear’ is,” Mrs Weasley chides, shaking her head dismissively.

You and Ginny exchange a look and swallow your giggles.

“Don’t worry, Mum. It’s not the type of candy you want to try anyway.”

_Unless you want to run to the toilet…_

Mrs Weasley narrows her eyes suspiciously at her daughter, “Ginny, will you help me with these vegetables? I’m sure (Y/N) would like to see her brother before dinner.”

“Why can’t Percy help?” Ginny whines and Mrs Weasley sends her a stern look.

“You know why Percy can’t help,” Mrs Weasley snips.

“Is it because of the misogynistic gender roles society forces onto us or are you just grooming me early?”

Ginny’s breath hitches as soon as the words tumble out of her mouth like she’s already regretting being born. Mrs Weasley glares dangerously at her daughter, squaring her shoulders and steeling her spine. You choose this moment to escape while you still can.

Stepping outside, you breathe in the sweet, summer breeze and feel it blossom inside your lungs like you had inhaled the various wildflowers growing in the Weasley’s large backyard. 

You take a moment to absorb the sunlit scene, admiring how everything glistens with a warm, golden glow, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and bread and smoke and capturing it in a jar to store in the special place between your ribs.

In the gazebo, Bill watches what looks like an exciting game of wizard chess between Charlie and Luke. Charlie looks as though he’s losing but he’s still trying to grab the upper hand, his brows furrowed in concentration and the tip of his tongue poking out as Luke makes his next move. You smile as you amble toward them.

“Hey guys,” you grin and playfully punch your brother in the shoulder. Luke beams up at you and ruffles your hair, greeting you with his usual “Hullo, Lulu.” Bill’s face lights up as he smiles cheerily at you, but Charlie simply nods, frowning deeply.

“You’ll have to excuse Charlie, rolling around with dragons has made him forget what it’s like to be a civilized human being.”

“You might want to think before insulting a literal Dragon Slayer,” Charlie drawls, lazily, as his hand hovers over his queen.

“Says the guy being defeated by a sixteen-year-old.”

Charlie blindly reaches around him to slap Bill but Bill swiftly moves out of the way, snorting. You study the board carefully and realise that Charlie could very well win this match with a simple move. Luke seems to realise this, too, because he has shifted his bishop to defend his king.

“May I?” you ask Charlie and he shrugs carelessly. You pluck Charlie’s queen and manoeuvre it over to the bishop, taking it and ending the game.

“I believe that’s checkmate, Luke Arden,” you pronounce, grinning and Luke gawks in horror. 

“Traitor,” he mutters, though he can’t fight back the smile teasing the corners of his lips. Charlie cheers, springing out of his seat and roping you into a hug. You shriek in delight as Charlie lifts you off your feet and twirls you around.

“Do you realise how many times I’ve lost to Luke?” Charlie exclaims as he carefully places you on your feet.

“I can only imagine,” you beam, “Merlin knows how many times I’ve lost to him, too, until I realized his weakness.”

Charlie goes silent in anticipation as Luke stands, shaking his head. “You little minx.”

You smile sweetly at him, “Careful, Mr Arden. I may expose you to my friends…”

“Don’t you worry, sis. I’ve got my own tricks up my sleeve.” Luke smirks smugly, like a scheming wolf, “And you might not be so confident when you realize exactly  _what_  I know.”

You blurt a nervous laugh, trying to bat away the twinge of worry that curls around your chest and tickles your wrist.  _Try and keep this funny_  “You wouldn’t dare. I still have a collection of baby photos the world has yet to see.”

Luke laughs good-heartedly, “I suppose that’s it then.”

If there is one thing to be taught about Lukas Arden, it’s that his mind is always working. He is silently calculating, strategizing, cataloguing and  _remembering_  like a cunning snake cornering its prey. He is a vicious opponent in more than just wizard chess, and that makes him as dangerous as he is cunning.

_He wouldn’t…not to me? His own sister…._

Luke smiles, and it’s so genuine and sweet, it puts your nerves at rest. In that moment, you know that you could never doubt him.

“Baby photos, eh?” Bill asks, cocking a brow, “Now that’s something I’ve got to see.”

“Maybe one day when I’m drunk enough,” Luke retorts, “Let’s hope that day never comes.”

“(Y/N)!” someone hisses, and you turn to find a smirking George Weasley, “Can you come over here for a sec? I’ve got a bone to pick.”

“Not a literal one I hope,” you retort, “I never know what to expect with you two.”

“That’s the secret of our success,” George beams, proudly.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, suspiciously, giving him an appraising look, “And why do you need me? Am I to be led astray?”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” George winks, leaning forward, “Unless you want me to, of course.”

“Keep dreaming,” you chortle, pushing his grinning face away. He feigns offence, blinking owlishly at you like an innocent puppy, but you just snort and shake your head, “You’re an idiot.”

“Only for you.”

“Of course.”

You glance back at your brother, who is joking light-heartedly with Charlie, “Alright, I’ll come. Though I’m warning you now if this prank kills me, I will come back as the most terrifying ghost you have ever seen and haunt the  _fuck_  out of you. Exorcist style.”

“Are we talking the first, second or third film?”

“The first one.”

George’s brows shoot up to his hairline. “Point taken.”

As you follow George, a thought crosses your mind, “How do you know about the Exorcist?”

George glances back at you, “How do  _you_  know about the Exorcist?”

“Luke and I went to see it in muggle London once in this old muggle cinema. Despite being incredibly inaccurate, I still had to sleep with the light on for two years.”

“Yeesh,” George titters, “Wish I was there.”

George takes you around a corner, where you find Fred hunched over a piece of parchment.

“Oh, hey (Y/N),” Fred smirks wickedly, “How was your little  _rendezvous_  with Mr Potter?”

You glare daggers at him, planting your hands on your hips, “How dare you to insinuate such a thing! Harry and I are just friends.  _Best friends_. We’ve been best friends since we met in Diagon Alley.”

“Best friends who want to fuck,” Fred murmurs and George chuckles.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, resisting the temptation to scratch your wrist, “It’s not like that. Can’t a guy and a girl be friends?”

“Of course, they can,” George says, “Hermione and Harry are friends. You and Ron are friends. But you and Harry…”

“He’d  _have_  to feel something,” Fred surmises, “She  _is_  the pretty one.”

“Why does everyone keep calling me that?” you ask and both Fred and George blink at you.

“You mean you don’t know?” George asks, a smirk flirting around the sharp corners of his lips.

“Know what?”

Fred and George exchange an amused look before Fred begins to explain, “At the beginning of last year, everyone kind of made names for the four of you. Nicknames, according to your stereotype. Apparently, Harry is the ‘Hero’–”

“–Hermione is the ‘Brains’–” George adds.

“–Ron is the ‘funny’ one–”

“–Which we wholeheartedly disagree with, by the way. He’s not funny. He’s just dumb–”

“–and you’re the–”

“Pretty one,” they say in unison, “And it’s kind of just stuck.”

You feel yourself flushing embarrassing tones of pink, “I mean…I’m flattered but I’m also a little insulted. Do people really think I’m just pretty?”

“Well, yeah,” Fred shrugs, “I mean, there are a lot of guys who’d like to do more than just play a friendly game of exploding snap with you. For instance, Cedric Diggory seems keen.”

“Maybe we should have had the sex talk with him,” George queries, frowning pensively at Fred.

“Nah, he’s way too handsome to still be a virgin.”

“You never know. He also happens to be a goody-two-shoes.”

“Yeah. He’d probably be a devout Christian hottie that they always advertise about in those sexy parts of the muggle newspaper.”

You clear your throat, your cheeks feeling like they’re about to combust, “Anyway, why did you guys want me here in the first place?”

“Oh!” Fred perks up, grinning mischievously at you, “Well, George and I were thinking of putting our skills to the test and starting a business together.”

“Cool!” you exclaim, sitting down beside Fred in the grass, “What type of business?”

“A joke shop,” George answers, beaming proudly.

“Naturally,” you smile, amused by the idea, “Forget I even asked. Does this joke shop have a name?”

“Well…” George trails off, combing a hand through his hair and scratching the base of his neck, “…you see, that’s the problem.”

“We can’t decide on a name,” Fred admits, “I want it to be called ‘Wizard Whizz’s: For When You’re Bored and You Feel Like You’re On the Edge of Oblivion.”

“¬–and I want it to be called ‘Jokes On Us: We Got You Covered.’”

You blink at them as they stare expectantly at you, watching your movements carefully, “First off, those are both terrible names. Like….how did you even think of them? You have to think of something short and catchy.”

“Like?” Fred says, raising his brows.

“Like….” You trail off thoughtfully “…Wizard Wheezes.”

“No, I got it…” George turns to Fred and they exchange a knowing grin, “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.”

You smile fondly at them, “That’s more like it.”

As the twins high-five each other, you feel someone tap you on the shoulder. Turning, you find Hermione holding a deck of cards. You rise from your spot in the grass and smooth down your dress.

“I’m so glad to see you’re feeling better, (Y/N), I hate when you get those headaches” Hermione flashes a warm smile, “Do you want to play some Exploding Snap?”

“Sure,” you smile gently at her before turning to the twins, who are murmuring excitedly between themselves, “See you guys later, yeah?”

George winks flirtatiously at you and Fred gives you a cheery salute. You follow Hermione to the table beneath a large oak tree to find Harry and Ron already sitting there. Your stomach curls in on itself when you catch Harry’s eye. Harry blushes and turns away.

“(Y/N) and I are going to play Exploding snap, do you want two want to join?” Hermione settles down next to Ron, forcing you to sit next to Harry.  

“Okay,” Ron shrugs, “Hey (Y/N), feeling better? You look better.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asks, quickly, his voice tight and curt like the words had just tumbled from his lips without permission.

“Nothing,” Ron says, glancing uneasily at Hermione. They exchange a brief look.

_What is going on?_

Hermione begins to deal the cards in the deck.

“Hey, I think I heard you guys talking earlier today.” you pry, and Hermione hesitates, hovering over Harry’s pile of cards. Tension steels Harry’s shoulders and he nervously rakes a hand through his messy, thick hair.

“It was nothing,” Ron shakes his head dismissively. The tips of his ears look as though they’ve been dipped in raspberry sauce and you feel irritation curl inside your wrist. Hermione reigns in the card piles and starts dealing them again.

“It didn’t sound like nothing,” you press, curling your hands around the fabric of your dress to stop yourself from itching that darn wrist, “I could literally hear you guys arguing. Luke was there, too.”

“(Y/N), it was nothing,” Harry snips, curtly, “Really. It was just…nothing.”

“We were just…” Ron trails off, mouth twitching as he searches for the right words.

“Well?” you ask, “What’s going on? Is it You-Know-Who? Is he…”

“No,” Hermione shakes her head, “It’s not You-Know-Who. Listen, (Y/N), now really isn’t the time. Let’s just play the game and we’ll explain later.”

“We’re going to explain later?” Harry asks, brows raised.

Hermione narrows her eyes on Harry, “Yes. We’re going to explain everything later.”

“We are?” Ron asks, staring at Hermione.

“Yes! (Y/N) needs to know!”

Harry works his jaw, “Not  _now_.”

“Well, when?”

“ _Later_  Later” Harry grits through a clenched jaw.

Hermione pins him with a stare, “Harry, we are not having this discussion right now.”

“Yes, we are,” you snip, your voice clipped coldly as you fiddle with a bead on your bracelet, “You guys can’t just leave me in the dark like this.”

“Trust me, it’s for your own good,” Ron murmurs and you narrow your eyes at him, summoning a dangerous glare.

“How could it possibly be for my own good?”

Before Ron can give you an answer, Hermione shrieks and tosses the cards just as they explode. A grey, plume of smoke clouds the air around you, mingling with the undeniable tension looming around the four of you. You all sit in stunned silence, staring as the deck sizzles. You taste ash and worry on your tongue.

“I…took too long,” Hermione finally mutters, tugging a strand of wiry hair behind her ear. She sucks in her bottom lip and chews it nervously.

You blink back unshed tears and stand, muttering quietly, your voice tight and tiny like a worried child, “I’m going inside.”

Ron begins to protest but you are beyond reasoning with. You just need some space to clear the fog in your skull, your heart feeling like a lump of blood and muscle sinking into your ribcage. Questions begin to spiral around in your head like a tornado, spinning you into unnerving vertigo.  _Why would they keep all those secrets from me? Do they really not trust me anymore?_

You can hear footsteps behind you, but you really just can’t right now, you don’t want to listen to reason or excuses or awkward glances. You just want your friends back. You want to be able to have a proper conversation with Harry without feeling like you’re on the opposite side of a mirror, staring hopelessly at someone you can’t  _touch_.

You really want Cedric Diggory to envelope you in a hug that could ward off all evil.

Pulling open the kitchen door, you charge inside the Burrow without looking, colliding with another broad-chested, stupidly tall figure. Except this isn’t just anyone.

“Oh, (Y/N)! Luke! I was just about to call you two inside,” Mrs Weasley smiles somewhat dreamily at the person you were about to walk into.

You take a step back and walk into Luke, who was standing behind you, jaw slack and face rippling with shock and anger.

“Hey, kids,” says your father, smiling warmly at the two of you.

 _Oh, shit._   


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg this is sooooo late I’m sorry guys. Like, really, I am. It’s been freaking insane and I’ve been literally going out of my god damn mind. Anyway, I finally got this finished so yay. Also, I could not find a translator that could properly communicate what I was trying to say so I’m sorry for people who actually speak Latin and read this and are like ….wtf???

On a good day, Adrien Arden is an award-winning journalist.

The charismatic and charming editor-and-chief of the largest source of wizarding news in the world. A clever leader adored by his colleagues and friends. A winner of several accolades for his service to the wizarding community and a personal friend of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. He’s the handsome, brooding widower with eyes that have the ability to draw you in and a smile worth more than all the gold in Gringotts. During his years at Hogwarts, he had been destined for success; a Slytherin Prefect and Head Boy and was regarded fondly by peers and professors alike.

On a bad day, Adrien Arden is a father.

A perfectionist with standards higher than a crowd of rowdy teenagers at a Weird Sisters concert. A workaholic and a ghost who drifts in and out of your life like the tide; pulling you in when he thinks it’s necessary and pushing you away when he realizes it isn’t.

Sometimes, you pity Adrien Arden.

It must be such a lonely existence; to work and work without receiving a reward. To have such ravenous ambition that has consumed every aspect of your being, pushing you further and further until you reach the edge. To realize that he’s repelled all the people who matter away, to not realize that all those galleons that sparkle and glitter in the family vault are worthless compared to the love and respect of his two children.

And it’s this pity that motivates you to keep a calm and level-head. It’s this pity that compels you to be the good little daughter for the sake of relative peace. And it’s this pity that helps you realize that family is the only way to keep your mother’s wishes alive, even though she isn’t.

Luke, however, is not so forgiving.

You don’t think there was ever a time where Luke got along with your father. Perhaps they are too similar, and for this reason, they clash. Whatever the reason is, though, it’s clear that Luke hates Adrien with every cell in his being, and if anyone ever doubts that, then all they had to do is step into the Weasley’s kitchen and glimpse at the razor-sharp glare Luke is giving your father right now.  

A heavy tension blankets the room in uncomfortable warmth, grating against your skin like sandpaper, and you fiddle with your bracelet to expel the nervous energy tickling your fingertips. You can almost feel the anger igniting the air around Luke, stiffening his spine, sharpening the edges of his jaw, curling his hands into fists.

Mrs Weasley must sense it, too, because she rolls her sleeves up and flashes a dimpled smile, “I’ll let you three spend some quality time together.”

Luke scoffs but doesn’t say anything more, most likely out of respect for Mrs Weasley. Mrs Weasley hurries off as your father draws a carefully guarded smile across his lips. It’s polished and professional, much like he is.

“I’m so relieved that you’re all okay,” Adrien says, and for a moment you actually believe him.

“Took you a while to remember we exist,” Luke spits, indignantly. The insult bounces off Adrien’s layers like a Protego spell.

“I’ve been…busy at work,” he says, calmly, “I’m sure you can understand.”

A derisive scoff issues from the back of Luke’s throat.

“It’s okay, father,” you say, trying to keep your tone reassuring, “We know that you’re busy.”

“Too busy to be a father,” Luke mutters, darkly, not meeting his eye.

Adrien ignores the comment, “I don’t have a lot of time but I just wanted to check in and see how you’re both going. Did you have fun at the World Cup anyway?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, “it was nice. I mean, before all of the chaos it was actually a really lovely night.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Adrien smiles fondly.

“Oh, Mr Arden,” says a familiar voice from behind you, and a shy, blushing Hermione steps forward. Ron and Harry follow behind her.

“Hello Hermione,” Adrien flashes her a smile and nods at Ron and Harry, “Hullo boys. Good to see you three again. How are you all?”

Harry shrugs, “We’re good, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, considering the night we just had we’re not exactly going to be prancing around picking flowers and shooting rainbows out of our asses,” Luke snaps, coldly, and Adrien narrows his eyes on him, working his jaw, grinding back whatever he wants to say. 

A loud, obnoxious beeping startles you, and Adrien glances down at his screeching watch.

“That’s all I have time for, for now. I have to head back to the office and submit some papers.”

“Glad you could fit us into your tight schedule,” Luke scowls, “Just leave. No one wants you here anyway.”

Your father clears his throat and bends down to embrace you awkwardly. You wrap your arms lightly around his neck, wondering whether its normal for a fatherly embrace to feel like you’re hugging a pole. He pulls away quickly and straightens, moving toward Luke. Luke folds his arms across his chest and steps away, refusing to look at his father. Adrien heaves a heavy sigh.

“I’ll see you…later,” he says and he gives your friends a weary smile, “I’ll send you an owl.”

Adrien walks into the kitchen, thanks a blushing Mrs Weasley for her hospitality, and leaves. You turn to Luke.

“Well that was…” you trail off, silenced by the expression on Luke’s face. His mouth is screwed shut and his eyes are glaring daggers in the direction where your father left, “Luke?”

Luke isn’t listening, though. Instead, he charges forward, nearly knocking you aside, and strides toward the door.

“Luke!” You call out, but Luke reaches for the door knob, yanks it open and slams it shut in your face. You push it open and peek through the crack.

“Why did you really come?” Luke demands, storming up to his father, “You don’t just decide to pop in after weeks of not seeing us!”

Adrien sighs, exasperated, “It’s as I said; I really was concerned for your wellbeing. Both you and your sister.”

Luke lurches forward and for a moment, you think that he’s going to tackle Adrien to the ground in a fit of fury. Instead, he rises up to his father, spine straightened in deadly determination. “Keep my sister out of your rotten mouth.”

Adrien narrows his eyes coldly on your brother, like a sniper taking aim, “Is that a threat,  _boy_? Because if it is, you’d better follow through with it. I did  _not_  raise a  _coward_.”

Luke bristles, “You have no right to think of her as your daughter when  _I_  was the one who raised her.  _I_  looked after her and protected her and held her as she mourned.  _I_  was the one who took her to Diagon Alley, bought her her first wand and school robes.  _I_  did the job you were supposed to do while you wallowed in self-pity and abandoned us as though your own children were a burden, stopping you from your precious work.”

Adrien steels, a dark expression falling over his sharp features, “Lukas Adrien Arden, if you  _ever_  doubt my responsibilities as a father again, I will personally ensure that it is the last thing you do.”

Luke steps back from the looming figure of his father, “You’re up to something, I know it. And I’ll find out, I always do.”

Adrien’s entire demeanour shifts and an amused ghost of a smile teases the corners of his lips, “I don’t doubt that. You  _are_ my son after all.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Luke spits, venomously.

“Oh but you are,” Adrien clamps a hand on Luke’s shoulder. Luke struggles under Adrien’s grip, but his grasp is like a vice, locking Luke into submission, “And when the day comes that you realise you are, you’ll regret every bad word you’ve ever said to me.”

You stare as Luke jerks away from Adrien’s grip and staggers backwards. The tension is stifling, like an ominous cloud of thick fog creeping over you, and you have to physically step back from the door to remember how to breathe again.

It’s sort of distressing, seeing Luke so riled up when he’s usually so smooth and refined. He looks and acts like a completely different person like someone has hijacked Luke’s body and is puppeteering his words and actions. It’s a persona that emerges whenever your father is around, a defence mechanism Luke has carefully honed after years of loathing and disgust.

It’s…unhealthy. Unnatural. Worrying.

Stepping away from the door, you turn and start toward Luke’s room, hoping you’ll be able to chat with him later. You doubt you’ll have any luck but he needs to know that you’ll be there for him in all the ways he was for you. Before you can make it up the stairs, though, you walk into a nervous-looking Harry.

“Hey,” he says, tearing a hand through his hair.

“Hey,” you echo, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“I…wanted to apologise-” Harry starts, but you cut him off with a raised hand.

“-You seem to be apologising a lot, lately,” You say, and Harry’s lips quirk into a sheepish smile. You mimic it as you continue, “I don’t know what’s going on, and if you don’t want to tell me then I respect that. I just…I want you to know that you can talk to me. I’m here for you, I always have and I always will be.”

Harry hesitates for a moment, his mouth moving around silent words, as though he’s carefully stringing them together. Laughter echoes from the backyard, ringing through the silence. You’re just about to say something when Harry beats you to it, his voice low, “Follow me.”

Intrigued and a little surprised, you watch as Harry scales the winding stairs, the sound of the floorboards groaning in protest filling the growing distance between the two of you. You start to follow him until you reach his and Rons shared room and he pushes the door open, inviting you in. You climb onto his bed and Harry closes the door behind you, fidgeting nervously with his glasses. Something in his expression seems hesitant, as though he’s debating on what to say. You wait patiently.

“It’s my scar,” he finally murmurs, “It’s been hurting lately and– I think it may be connected to the attack at the World Cup.”

“Oh,” you say, trying to swallow back the distant ache throbbing in your throat, “Oh, Harry. This is…this is serious. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I was going to tell you,” Harry says, quickly, the words flying from his lips like a practised excuse, “In the Forrest when we were looking for the Portkey. But then…then  _Cedric_  came and I didn’t get a chance to talk to you alone.”

You study Harry for a long moment, eyes sweeping over his fidgeting form. He seems unsettled, a little nervous, perhaps hesitant, like he’s trying to tackle something on his tongue back into his throat. You figure it could just be his nerves, but you can’t help but wonder if he wants to say more.

“Is that what you guys were arguing about this afternoon?” You ask and Harry nods, “Why was Luke there?”

Harry blinks at you, “What?”

“Why was Luke there?” You reiterate, calmly, “I heard him arguing with you.”

Before he can answer, there is a tentative knock at the door and a moment later, Ginny’s head pokes out from behind it. A small blush blossoms beneath her freckled cheeks when she notices Harry but then her eyes drift toward you and she raises a sharp brow.

“Mum says dinner is ready,” she says, her voice soft.

“Okay,” you and Harry blurt at the same time and Ginny nods as she closes the door.

You slide off Harry’s bed and straighten, “I don’t know about you but I’m starving.”

Harry chortles, his smile loose, relieved  “Yeah, I could really go for some roast chicken right about now.”

You smile at Harry, “Thanks for telling me.”

Harry nods and gives a half-hearted smile, “Thanks for listening.”

As you descend the staircase, chatting lightly and smiling easily, a sense of nostalgia overcomes you like a wave of warm sepia and it almost feels like old times without all the secrecy and nervous energy. It almost feels like, for a fleeting moment, it is just you and Harry and nothing between the two of you. 

Almost.

***

After a delicious dinner and a scrumptious dessert, you and Hermione sit in front of the fireplace, Hermione in the armchair and you sitting crossed-leg on the floor. Your Quidditch World Cup article sits in your lap as your eyes scan the parchment, reading and re-reading. 

“Is Luke okay?” Hermione suddenly asks, not even trying to clip the worry from her voice, “He wasn’t himself at dinner.”

You look up from your work, pushing your hair off your face, “He always gets like that around my dad,” you admit with a small shrug, pretending that it doesn’t bother you, “He just needs his space.”

Hermione nods, though there is an expression of worry creeping over her face and you study her, noting her features carefully. Before you can question her, Fred sidles up to the two of you, eyes glinting mischievously.

“Hey you two,” he greets, smirking wolfishly, “We’ve got a couple bottles of booze and absolutely no regrets. Wanna join us?”

“Please tell me this isn’t a giant orgy or something,” you retort and Hermione blushes furiously.

“Nah,” Fred shakes his head with a grin, “Though I’m open for persuasion.”

You snort and shake your head, smiling, “Only in my nightmares.”

Fred clutches his chest in mock hurt, “Aw, we could have been something special.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“And what exactly are we going to do?” Hermione asks, her brows raised expectantly. Fred straightens importantly.

“Get pissed.”

“She was only asking,” you quip and Fred rolls his eyes.

“Get sloshed. Buzzed. Wasted. Inebriated. Intoxicated,” he narrows his eyes pointedly at you, “Drunk. What else are you supposed to do with fire whiskey? Bathe in it? Because we’ve tried and it’s not…good.”

“But we’re underage?” Hermione says, eying Fred suspiciously.

“So?” Fred shrugs, “You’ve already broken the law by helping a wanted fugitive escape, not to mention several hundred school rules. What’s another stupid law?”

A pale pink blush tickles the apples of her cheeks and Hermione averts her gaze, “Right.”

“Come on guys,” Fred whines, imploring you with large, pleading eyes, “You’re always putting yourselves in constant danger. Why not relax for the night?”

“He’s got a point,” you shrug, turning to Hermione. She chews her bottom lip thoughtfully, giving Fred an appraising look. Finally, she glances at you and gives a small nod.  

“Alright,” she says, lifting her chin slightly, more confidently, “but I’m filling my own glass. I don’t want you pouring me a drink.”

“Why? Don’t you trust us?” Fred asks, grinning wickedly.

“You don’t want me to answer that question.”

Fred shakes his head, forlornly, “All you young whipper-snappers going around and breaking an old man’s heart.”

“As (Y/N) said, ‘You’ll get over it.’”

You bark a laugh and high-five Hermione. Fred wipes an imaginary tear away and pouts exaggeratedly.

“We’re meeting at 11pm,” Fred leans in and lowers his voice to a not-so-quiet whisper, “That way, mum and dad will be asleep, and they won’t get suspicious.”

With a smirk and a wink, Fred whirls off and saunters out of the room. You watch him leave, nibbling your bottom lip, twirling and twisting your bracelet between your nimble fingers. Somehow, for some reason, you have a feeling that the night isn’t going to go as smoothly as Fred thinks.

* * *

***

At ten to eleven, you, Hermione and Ginny tip-toe out of her bedroom and make a slow start to the stairs.

The corridor looks odd like this; cloaked in darkness and completely void of sound or movement. The Burrow has always felt alive, pulsing with life as though it were a heart pumping blood through the veins of the house. Come night time, that heart seems to falter to a stop, leaving the house eerily quiet. You shiver.

“This is weird,” you whisper, “It’s so quiet. I feel like I’m walking through a graveyard.”

Ginny shudders, and in the pale light of your wand, you see her face contort into a scowl, “Thanks for the commentary. Now I feel paranoid in  _my own house.”_

“It’s okay,” Hermione murmurs, softly, “Mrs Weasley and Mr Weasley are here, too, don’t forget.”

“That makes me feel even better,” Ginny drawls, sardonically, “If a murderer doesn’t leap out and slaughter me where I stand, my mum will.”

“No one is going to kill anyone–” 

A loud groan interrupts Hermione mid-speech and you all jump, spinning around to face the source of the noise. Clamping a hand over your mouth, you muffle your shriek as Hermione gasps and staggers backwards toward the railing and Ginny fumbles with her wand. It slips from between her fingers like a stick of butter and clatters on the ground. Heart racing, you raise your wand and heave a sigh of relief.  

Harry and Ron both stare at the three of you, eyes wide, faces flushed and chests heaving. Harry bends down and grabs Ginny’s wand, handing it to her with a gentle smile. Ginny squeaks a breathless ‘Thank you,’ and darts back to your side. Ron gawks at you, his expression somewhere between bemusement and frustration.

“Bloody  _hell_ ,” Ron curses under his breath, “It’s just  _us_.”

“Well don’t sneak up on us!” you hiss, “You nearly scared us to death!”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, sheepishly, “Let’s just go before we get caught.”

You start toward the stairs and begin descending the creaking staircase. 

Somehow, every step you make seems to amplify, ringing through the house like a blaring siren, as though the house is designed to alert Mr and Mrs Weasley that their children are sneaking out after curfew. Trying to balance on the tips of your toes, you slowly descend the never-ending staircase, contemplating whether it was such a good idea to leave the comfort of your bed in the first place.

“Luke seemed kind of off at dinner tonight,” Harry mutters leaning forward, “Is he…y’know?”

“He just hates my dad,” You whisper back, surprised that Harry noticed. You’re about to make a joke out of it but Hermione shushes you into silence from over her shoulder. As she turns back, though, she misses a step and stumbles forward.

“Hermione–!” Ron gasps from behind you and you listen for a loud thump, but it never comes. You direct your wand to the end of the staircase and find Hermione lying in someone’s arms.

“Oh, Luke,” Hermione murmurs, flustered, several shades of red rippling across her face, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he smiles softly at her and she straightens, brushing down her clothes and combing a finger through her hair.

You all reach the bottom of the staircase and playfully punch Luke in the shoulder, “Looks like she fell for you.”

To your surprise, Luke doesn’t respond to your terrible joke. He just scowls and shakes his head, moving toward the back door. You blink at him and follow.

“C’mon, really? Nothing?” you ask as he pushes the door open, “No ‘I thought you were better than corny puns?’”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Luke murmurs, stalking through the backyard and toward the tree house. 

“Is he going to be okay?” Hermione asks beside you, watching him with concern in her eyes.

You chew your bottom lip nervously, “I–I don’t know…”

* * *

The tree house is actually a lot safer than it looks, which is oddly ironic since Fred and George give no consideration to safety whatsoever.

Thick planks of wood are nailed to a gap in the large tree as though they are sitting in its palm, branches stretching like fingers around it. There is a wooden railing that surrounds the platform, fairy lights intertwined around it. Alternative pop music plays on low, the sound prevented from leaving the treehouse by the silencing charm Fred had cast, containing it in a bubble of sorts. There are light bulbs, all different shapes and sizes, strung together and hanging from the branches overhead that act as a roof. Right in the centre of the ‘roof’ is a large hole that brags a beautiful view of the midnight sky, freckled with stars.

It’s actually kind of beautiful. Serene, almost.

You down the rest of the drink and raise your chin to the stars, lost in their beauty. You can almost feel the stardust raining down on you, sinking into your skin, filling you up with a beautiful, ethereal light, like there is an entire galaxy bursting to life inside of you. You’re not sure if it’s the fire whiskey humming in your veins or not but you feel like you could just step off the balcony of the treehouse and float away.  

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” a familiar voice says from beside you, and you turn to find George Weasley gazing up at the stars with you, an expression of awe painted across his face, “Do you know who else is beautiful?”

“Please, don’t finish that sentence and ruin this beautiful moment,” you murmur and George snorts.

“You don’t like hearing compliments about yourself?”

“I don’t like cheesy pickup lines.”

George shrugs, “That’s fair. Though I was going to say that  _I_ was beautiful but never mind.”

You chortle, shaking your head and grinning broadly at him. He echoes it, lips curving into a grin you may never get tired of seeing, “You really know how to cheer a girl up, don’t you?”  

“Only the ones I like,” George smiles softly, softer than anything you’ve ever seen him wear.

“Well, I’m grateful anyhow.”

George drapes an arm over your shoulders and pulls you to his side protectively, provoking a laugh to burst boisterously from your lips.

“So, are you and Cedric…?”

You flush, cheeks burning, “I–I don’t really know…”

“Well, just so you know, he talks about you a lot,” George says, “Our friend, Juniper Cross. You know Juniper?” You nod, recalling the beautiful Hufflepuff in George’s year, “Anyway, she says he talks about you like you ‘put the stars in the sky.’ His words, not mine.”

An odd, sort of airy feeling circles around you and floods you like helium, lighter than air, ascending the five layers of the atmospheres and disappearing into the universe.

The moment is broken by Fred, who yanks another bottle of fire whiskey from a crate and holds it over his head.

“Who’s up for a game of ‘Never have I Ever?”

“What’s that?” Hermione asks and Fred blinks at her.

“You’ve never played ‘Never Have I Ever?’” George asks, bewildered, “Hermione, what have you been  _doing_  with your life?”

“Never Have I Ever is a classic drinking game,” Luke says, sitting beside Hermione, “Basically, you have to say something that you’ve never done and everyone who has done said thing has to drink. For instance, if I say ‘Never have I ever… snogged a girl from France’–”

“–We would call you a liar,” Fred interjects, and Luke rolls his eyes.

“–Everyone who  _has_  snogged a girl from France would have to take a drink.”

“And we would call  _them_  liars,” George sniggers and you snort, bumping his fist with your own.

“The person with the most alcohol left in their glass wins,” Luke continues, ignoring the snickering Weasley twins.  

“And if you say a ‘Never have I ever’ and no one else has done it either, you have to drink from  _everyone’s_  glass,” Fred smirks deviously, and Hermione raises her brows, her fingers finding the hem of her sleeves.

Luke studies her with benevolent eyes, his past frustration melting off his shoulders like ice in the early spring, “If you’re not comfortable, you don’t have to play.”

A gentle shade of soft pink flourishes on the apples of Hermione’s cheeks and her lips quirk into an awkward smile, “No, it’s okay. I’ll play.”

“Are you sure? We’re all friends here, and we want you to be comfortable,” Luke smiles, reassuringly.

Hermione nods, and George claps a brotherly hand on Luke’s shoulder, “Ever the gentleman. If I wasn’t in an exclusive relationship with myself, I would  _totally_  date you, man. Like, put out and  _everything._ ”

Luke just gives a half-hearted smile and a modest shrug. He looks like such a different person to the Luke you saw earlier that day, seething threats at his own father and brewing in a venomous mood. Even when you met him in the kitchen earlier that night, Luke had seemed guarded and brooding and nothing like the sweet, considerate and boyishly charming man he is with Hermione.

You all sit crossed-leg on the ground in a circle and, with a looming sense of doom, you find yourself sitting between Fred and George, an unsavoury position for anyone to be in. Before you can escape to the other side of the circle, Fred and George begin filling up several glasses and hand them around the group. Fred pauses in front of Ginny, sculling her fire whiskey with a wince and filling her glass with chocolate milk. Ginny folds her arms across her chest, glaring dangerously at her brother.  

“No alcohol for anyone under 14,” Fred says, wagging a finger at Ginny, “It rots your brain.”

“Good thing you don’t have one, then,” Ginny grumbles, rolling her eyes and snatching the glass of milk out of her brothers’ hand. Once everyone has their glass, the game begins. Unsurprisingly, George volunteers to go first.

“Never have I ever…met a Norwegian Ridgeback dragon called ‘Norbert’, tried to smuggle Norbert out of Hogwarts but got caught in the process and consequently lost Gryffindor one hundred points,” he says before adding, “Oh, and got sent to detention, too.”

You, Hermione, and Harry exchange guilty glances and take a swig of your drinks. The fiery liquid surges down your throat like molten lava and pools delightfully in your lower belly, the alcohol crackling in your veins.

“Technically, I wasn’t there when they tried to smuggle Norbert out,” Ron argues, raising his arm to reveal the thin scar knitted into his skin, “Norbert bit me, so I was in the Hospital wing.”

“You still met him,” George points out and Ron’s confident expression falls, grumbling as he takes a sip from his cup.  

“Alright, Harry, you’re up next,” Fred grins, pointing at Harry with his glass.

Harry’s brows furrow as he thinks, the tip of his tongue poking out between the soft cushions of his lips. Once again, Harry seems so… _relaxed_. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or the company, or both, but it’s a relief to see him so unguarded and it shows in how easily he’s smiling, how warm and inviting his gaze is. And when he catches your eye, his lips quirk up into a small smile and it feels…nostalgic.

It feels like it used to.

“Never have I ever…been kicked out of a bar?”

Fred and George groan in unison and take a swig of their drinks. To everyone’s surprise, Ginny does, too. While the rest of the group gapes at Ginny, their jaws slack and eyes wide in disbelief, Ginny gives a nonchalant shrug, her eyes glistening in the low light as she recalls the moment.

“I may or may not have hexed a certain, misogynistic Ravenclaw who was getting on my nerves,” she gives a sharp, cat-like smirk, resembling her rebellious, older brothers “I don’t regret anything.”

Fred and George pretend to sob tears of pride as they slap Ginny on the back, “Look at how far our precious, little sister has come. We taught you well.”

The game moves around the circle, jokes and laughter thick in the summer air as your drinks slowly begin to dwindle.

When it finally reaches Fred, he flashes a scheming grin, and he raises a confident brow, “Never have I ever…had a crush on Cedric Diggory…”

Everyone narrows their eyes on you expectantly. You sigh, rolling your eyes as Fred sniggers devilishly.

“Fuck you, Fred!” you snip, throwing the rest of your drink back. Your head spins in languid circles as try not to splutter, and in the warm ambience of the room, your eyes find Harry’s; gazes colliding for a long, lingering moment. Harry doesn’t shy away, in fact, he’s the boldest you’ve seen him since the World Cup, and something hooks around your lower belly, yanking it up into your throat.

“Okay, (Y/N), your turn,” Fred juts his chin at your glass and eyes you hopefully. You heave a sigh.

“Alright. Um…” you pause thoughtfully, and then your lips pull into a grin when you catch Ginny’s eyes, “Never have I ever…had a crush on someone in this room.”

Fred and George stare at Ginny and she sighs, taking a swig of her chocolate milk. She pokes her tongue out at you playfully and you give her an apologetic look. She shrugs nonchalantly, though she doesn’t seem entirely bothered.  _Strange_ , you think,  _she must be getting over Harry_. You never really anticipated that.

You never anticipated Hermione and Harry taking a nervous sip from their drinks, either.

“Woah,” George says, eyes flitting between the two of them, “What’s going on here?”

They seem hesitant in their answer, weighing their options, gauging each other for a response like they’re dancing tentatively around the subject. You and Ron exchange a surprised look, the tips of Ron’s ears an odd shade of red. Something tight and nasty coils inside of you like a sleeping snake.

Hermione and Harry exchange a look, and Harry shrugs “Nothing. We’re just answering the question.”

You blink at Harry, then at Hermione. They seem to be avoiding your gaze, eyes darting around the room like they’re trying to pull excuses from the air around them. Is that what all the secrecy is about? Are they…?

“So you both have had a crush on someone in this room?”

“Er…” Harry flicks a glance at Hermione and then sweeps his gaze to you before hastily averting your gawking stare, “…yes? Why?”

“Huh,” Fred shrugs, “No reason.”

Hermione frowns, “What? It’s not like we like each other.”

“Whatever you say, Hermione.”

Hermione’s mouth twists into a thin frown and Harry furrows his brows at Fred’s blatant, off-handed remark. Tension has steeled his spine like an iron rod and he fidgets uncomfortably, his nervous mannerisms unspooling as time seems to drag by. The sepia-stained nostalgia that you had so willingly embraced begins to crumble the more he glances between Hermione and Ron, and the needlepoint sting of hurt pricks the inside of your wrist.

“Um, I think it’s your turn, George,” Ron says, quickly, nervously glancing at Harry.  _Does Ron know something–?_

George nods importantly and continues the game, but you’re still rooted in time. As everyone else takes their turn, your eyes continue to stray to Harry, studying, observing, realising, that this is so much more than his scar. His cheeks are rosy, flushed pink from the alcohol and embarrassment, his eyes a startling shade of green against the sun-kissed skin of his face and the electric shock of dishevelled, black hair and as you study him, your head begins to spin.

You take a long swig of your drink, gulping back your anxiety, wishing that you had trusted your gut in the first place. 

* * *

***

Somehow, you make it back to your room without making a complete fool of yourself.

Hermione’s avoided you for most of the night, though you can tell that she’s nervous by the way she chews her bottom lip; it’s red and raw, the moon-crescent bite marks curved into the delicate skin of her lower lip. You want to talk to her, to ask about the secrecy, but your head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and your eyes are like heavy golf balls stuck into your skull and you really just want to sleep–

You pull your camisole over the top of your head and rip your bra off, an envelope falling out from its grasp.

“Oh,” you say, to no one in particular, “My letter.”

Between the visit from your dad and the Weasley’s drinking game, you had completely forgotten about it. Bending down, you scoop it off the ground and study the envelope. Your name and address are writing in elegant curlicue cursive to the point where it’s nearly unreadable. You squint, following the loops and curls, and turn the envelope over. No return address. Odd. You open it anyway, unfold the letter…

And gasp.  

It doesn’t make sense.

Your stomach is twisted into a tight, thick knot, heavy in your abdomen, weighing like an anchor plummeting to the ocean floor. Ice gushes through the deltas of your veins as though it were blood pulsing through the arteries of a cold-blooded monster, freezing your spine, paralysing you.

You can’t tear your eyes away. 

You stare down at a photo of you and Cedric at the World Cup, stained in shades of black and grey, frozen in time, smiles fixed onto your faces. And it would have been a beautiful photo, it really had, if it weren’t for the blood-red insignia scarring the back of the photo; a snake eating itself, circling around what looks like a cross between a Scarab and a skull moth.

And, beneath it, eight words strung together, bleeding into the paper like a wound.

_Mus uni non habeat fiduciam autem serpens esuriit_

_A mouse does not trust a hungry snake_

Suddenly, you wish you were drunk again.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally oh my gosh this took freaking ages to put together! YAYY for Cedric and Draco coming back, I love writing them (esp Draco :P) I’m finding that, the more I write this, the more pairings I add to the story. In the end, I think I’m going to make it so you can choose who you want to end up and write different endings for each potential love interest. Annnyway, here you go. P.S. I’m super proud of my giffing skills atm, see the above! a gif by yours truly.

There’s something whimsically surreal about the Burrow.

It seems to glisten from the ground up as though someone had sprinkled gold dust over it. From where you’re standing, you begin to appreciate how beautiful it is in the light; standing tall against the backdrop of rolling hills and lush, green grass, inviting you in without having to use words.

You’re standing in the backyard, waiting for someone, though you’re not sure who. It’s more like a feeling like you’re anticipating something you’re not sure will happen. There is a faint buzz humming in the air, like the beating wings of a thousand butterflies. The sky is like a painter’s palette; a blend of soft blues and vibrant pinks, like those honey-glazed moments right before the sun sets.

It’s like a poet’s dream.  

“(Y/N)?” says a familiar voice. You’re smiling before you even turn around, knowing who is standing behind you without even looking.  

“Cedric,” you sigh, whirling around and throwing yourself into his arms.  

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says, kissing your cheek, your neck, your collarbone, lips spilling over your skin like he can’t get enough of you.

“I know,” you whisper, softly, as his lips move against you like water, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he reassures, voice gentle in your ear as his hands card through your hair, “Besides,  _a mouse never trusts a hungry snake_.”

You freeze as, suddenly, the voice in your ear trails off into a cold, sharp hiss, and the world around you plunges into darkness. Cedric untangles himself from your embrace, stepping back as his face distorts before you, revealing his true form.

You watch in horror as black bleeds into that deep, deep blue in his eyes, filling out every corner as though he were possessed by something sinister. His head distorts into a spade-like shape, neck elongating, his nose flattening into two thin slits and he sheds his bronze skin, a snake-like pattern stretched over his muscles and veins. His lips pull back into an insidious smile, cold and cruel like the edge of a scythe, revealing sharp fangs and a long, forked tongue that pokes out and curls in the air, testing, tasting for prey.

The fluttering noise gets louder, more insistent, like an orchestra of shrieking violins, warning you to  _run, run, run!_

“You’d better wake up now, mouse” the snake monster hisses; it sounds like the blood-curdling shriek of nails scraping across a chalkboard, “Before you forget how to.”

You wake up to green eyes in the dark.

Belladonna Nightshade, better known as Nightshade, Bella, Belle or simply B, peers down at you curiously, blinking owlishly. She’s perched on your chest, her gaze now sharpening from curiosity to expectancy as she silently demands food, though there’s something in those green eyes that suggests that she had sensed your discomfort and pulled you from your nightmare as an act of mercy.

Sometimes, Belladonna Nightshade is more human than she is a cat.

Your hands tremble as you reach out and pat her, your fingers raking through her soft fur. She leans into your touch, purring in delight, and she does that adorable cat thing with her eyes where she closes them and eases into your roaming touch, as though she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here, on your chest, her paws pressed into your cheeks.

“Hey B,” you whisper, voice raspy and low. There’s a dry, scratchy sort of taste in the back of your mouth like you had just been stifling a scream. You swallow thickly and reach beneath your pillow, pulling out the photo that’s been buried underneath since it arrived one week ago.

You unfold it and stare at the symbol on the back. Why would someone send this? Why were they spying on you in the first place? Is it a threat or a warning? Has Cedric received one, too?  

“Oh, good! You’re awake,” Says a voice in the doorway, and your vision swims as you try to focus on the figure in front of you.

Hermione strides over and stands next to you, already showered and dressed, hair tackled and tamed into a bushy ponytail and an irrefutable air of anticipation buzzing around her. It’s such a startling contrast to your nightmare that you have to reassure yourself that, in reality, snakes don’t usually protrude from people’s necks.

Usually.

“Mrs Weasley said she’ll cook some blueberry pancakes for us if we all get ready in time.”

You nod curtly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and swallowing the imaginary cotton-ball stuck in your throat. Nightshade leaps from your chest and onto the floor, rubbing herself against Hermione. Hermione bends over and scratches Nightshade’s head.  

“Did you have another nightmare?” Hermione asks, but the look in her eye tells you that she already knows.

A knot forms in your stomach, like a strong, calloused fist is squeezing it into submission. You nod wordlessly, your thumb scraping across the corner of the photo as though you were deliberately trying to get a paper cut. Hermione places Nightshade on the floor and sits by your side. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, staring at the photo.

“Not really,” you murmur, fingers rubbing nervous circles on your wrist and feeling your pulse thump beneath the delicate skin, “I just want to forget about this stupid thing.”

You toss the photo to the ground and Hermione picks it up again, unfolding it. She studies it intensely, brown eyes dragging across every inch of the photo and the symbol on the back.

“It does seem odd that they’d send you a photo of you and Cedric,” Hermione muses, distantly, “and how does this symbol relate to Cedric? Do you think he got one as well?”

You shrug as you stare at your wrist. It’s red from where your nails have been furiously scratching away at the ache. 

“And what do they mean by  _‘A mouse does not trust a hungry snake’_? Are  _you_  the mouse in this scenario? Or are you the snake? Are they trying to warn you about something? Are they saying you can’t trust anyone?” Hermione sighs and slaps the photo on your bedside table, “The more I stare at it, the more questions come to mind.”  

“That’s why I want to pretend it doesn’t exist,” you mumble, climbing out of bed, “And, before you ask, no. We’re not telling Harry or Ron or anyone about this, okay?”

Hermione nods, opens her mouth to say something, but you  _can’t_  talk about it anymore right now, you just  _can’t_. Being on edge for an entire week has turned your stomach into a mosh pit, nerves crashing and colliding and crackling like the frayed edges of tangled electrical wires, and you don’t think you can verbalize any of it without dissolving into an existential crisis.

“Thanks,” you give her a half smile, drawing a carefully guarded expression across your face. You smile at Nightshade and she saunters over, her tail curling into a question mark shape. She leaps into your arms and you rush out of the room, evading any more discussions on the topic.

Knowing Hermione, she will probably want to talk to you later. And that’s okay for now. But, at the moment, it’s best to leave some things unspoken, like seeing your crush transform into a horrid snake monster.

* * *

 

Breakfast is an awkward ordeal.

True to her word, Mrs Weasley did make some of the fluffiest pancakes you have ever tasted, and you enjoyed every bite, even if you did have to shovel in as many mouthfuls as you could. Still, you enjoy sitting with the Weasleys; they have this rare ability to make you feel like you’re one of them. 

It’s even better seeing Luke. You take a moment to study him, watching him carefully. He’s wearing his favourite, borg-lined denim jacket, black jeans, black converses and a broad grin as he challenged Bill Weasley to a quick game of Wizard Chess.

Over the course of the week, you had watched Luke slowly heal from your father’s surprise-turned-disaster visit. Now, he seems so different again. It makes you wonder how many masks he had for separate occasions. But this morning, he seemed so…unguarded. Happy, even.

“Come on, William,” Luke teases, grinning, “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

Bill snorts a laugh, “I’m not scared. I’m just not an idiot. You Arden’s are far too cunning for your own good.”

Luke shrugs, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m feeling lazy today…”

“I certainly hope not,” Percy Weasley snaps from the kitchen, “It’s the first day of school and all you’re concerned about is playing a game of Wizard chess! You need to sort out your priorities.”

“And you need to get laid, Percy Weasley,” Luke grins, watching as a deep red flush burns up Percy’s neck, “I can tell you’re suffering from a classic case of  _Blue Bludgers_. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, we’ve all been there. Well, not  _all_  of us.”

Everyone bursts into a furious fit of laughter except Hermione and Percy, the former looking like she’s teetering along the edge of amusement and embarrassment, the latter looking as though he may explode.

Percy opens his mouth to scold Luke but is interrupted by Mr Weasley, who bursts into the kitchen, shrugging into his work robes, and swipes a piece of toast from the table and straightening his glasses.

“Morning kids,” he says as he passes, rushing into the study.  

While everyone is distracted, you turn to Harry, who sits next to you.

“Have you heard from Sirius?” you whisper, and Harry turns to you, green eyes tinged with a hint of worry.

“No, not yet,” Harry replies, “I’m not sure where he is, though, so it could take weeks before I get a response.”

You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “You’re right. It’s probably better that he doesn’t reply straight away anyway.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, “Why? Is something wrong?”

You think about telling Harry the truth, showing him the photo burning through the fabric of your mini denim overalls but you don’t really know where to begin. Plus, with everyone crowded in the kitchen…

“I’ll explain later,” you murmur, eying Ginny as she tries to lean into the conversation, “Now isn’t a good time.”

Harry nods, then fixes his eyes on your bottom lip. He stares as though he’s transfixed, an interesting shade of pink brushing against his cheeks as his pupils dilate ever-so-slightly. You freeze, feeling your own cheeks burn under the intensity of his gaze.

“What? What is it?”

“There’s–there’s something on…” He trails off and hesitantly raises his hand, swiping the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip, “There. Got it.”

His fingers hover over your skin, ghosting across your cheek as though he wants to cup it but some sort of invisible barrier is preventing him from breaking through. Something flares inside of you as you watch him, wondering what’s going on inside his brain. 

The sound of shattering glass shocks you from your trance, and you both nearly leap off your chairs. Ginny is grimacing, her face flushed as her eyes dart between you, Harry and something on the floor.

“You alright, Ginny?” Bill asks from across the table. Luke springs from his chair and walks around the table to Ginny’s side.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ginny murmurs, her lashes fluttering as she blinks rapidly, “I just…dropped a glass. That’s all.”

Ginny glances between you and Harry and an expression of hurt flickers across her face, disappearing completely as she turns away from you and Harry.

Luke draws his wand, points it at the shards of glass scattered across the kitchen floor, and mutters ‘Reparo.’ Small pieces of glass trapeze through the air and piece themselves together like a jigsaw puzzle, forming a glass. He pats Ginny on the back and she smiles sheepishly up at him.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Fred continues as Luke sits back into his chair, “Mr Diggory – also known as (Y/N)’s father-in-law – was saying that Mad-Eye Moody’s put in another complaint. Apparently, someone tried to ambush him last night. Again.”

“He’s lost it,” Charlie mumbles through a mouthful of pancakes, “Also are we going to ignore the whole ‘(Y/N)’s father-in-law’ joke?” 

“Did he ever ‘have it’ in the first place?” Luke asks as he absentmindedly plays with his food, “Besides, why would anyone try to ‘kidnap’ him in the first place? His house is basically a burglar’s nightmare.”

“I guess we are going to ignore it,” Charlie shrugs and stabs his fork into another pancake. 

“I concur,” Percy chimes in, “Moody’s a raging lunatic and he shouldn’t harass Mr Crouch with his pathetic, baseless complaints. Mr Crouch is a very busy man, he shouldn’t have to put up with Moody.”

“Well, you would know,” George says, grinning wickedly, “You  _are_  Mr Crouch’s bitch boy.”

Percy scowls dangerously at George while Luke and Fred snicker. Luke even leans across the table and pumps his fist on George’s.

“Father is rather fond of Moody,” you interject, and Luke’s expression falters, his lips quirking ever-so-slightly, “He respects Moody, even if he is a little…. senile.”

“Yeah, well, fuck that,” Luke huffs, taking a swig of his pumpkin juice, “Adrien Arden only ever cares about people who look good on the front page of the Daily Prophet. If their faces sell copies, then he’s their best friend. He did the same thing to Sirius Black; he wasn’t afraid to drag Sirius’ name through the mud, even though there wasn’t even a trial for him.”

You, Hermione, Ron and Harry exchange a furtive look,

“You think he’s innocent?” Hermione asks, a faint tinge of pink staining her cheeks.

“I don’t know,” Luke shrugs, “I’ve looked into his case and I’ve just…I’ve seen a lot of inconsistencies. A lot of his case is sensationalized. Anyway, it’s a good thing that Sirius escaped. I wouldn’t wish the Dementors kiss on anyone.”

“A good thing?” Percy chides, hotly, “The whole ghastly ordeal has been a pain in the Ministry’s back, especially for–”

“–Mr Crouch,” Fred finishes, rolling his eyes, “Yes, Barty’s Bitch Boy, whatever you say.”

Everyone laughs, once again, including Hermione. Except, you think it might be out of relief rather than amusement.

* * *

 

You arrive at Platform 9 ¾ with a good ten minutes to spare.

Surprising, really, given that breakfast had been such a rushed ordeal and it felt like it had taken months to get ready. Still, after cramming into the Ministry-loaned car and uttering a string of silent prayers to gods you don’t even know, you managed to pull up to Kings Cross Station.

You and Ron had rushed through the barrier together and emerged on the other side grinning. It was always such a thrill, running through the barrier. Of course, Nightshade didn’t care for it, and as soon as you clambered onto the platform, she had meowed loudly, hoping to be released from her carrier.

“I know Belle,” you coo as you poke your finger into her carrier, stroking her fur. Nightshade nuzzles into your touch, rubbing her nose on your finger, “I’ll let you out as soon as we’re on the train.”

A burst of loud guffaws echoes across the station, and you turn to find Luke with his friends. Luke glances at you, his lopsided grin broadening.

“I’ll see you on the train,” you hear him say, “I’ll just be a sec.” They tease him as he shoulders past them and jogs toward you. You smile and cross your arms over your chest, cocking your head as you watch him.

“Aw, come to kiss your little sister goodbye?” you ask, cooing mockingly, as Luke pulls you into a one-armed hug.

“Actually, I came to say goodbye to Nightshade,” Luke jokes, scratching Nightshade through the bars of the car carrier, “And to tell you that I’ll be sitting with my freinds if you need me.”

“You better not let Caleb and the boys see you like this,” you tease, poking him in the ribs, “They’ll think you’ve gone all soft inside.”

“Maybe I was soft to begin with,” Luke suggests, planting a kiss on the crown of your head, “Seriously, though. You need me, come and find me and I’m yours.”

You roll your eyes as Luke gives you one last hug and stalks off to his friends, who wait for him patiently. Behind you, you hear hurried whispers engaging in a heated argument, and you turn to find Ron and Harry murmuring amongst themselves. Your ears strain to listen, but you can’t hear over the chatter of the crowd. You’re about to approach them when you someone nudges your shoulder with their own.  

“Looks like you’ve caught someones attention,” Hermione smiles, nodding toward someone in the distance, and you follow her gaze to Cedric Diggory, who smiles and waves cheerily at you.

You swallow, your chest fluttering. Even though you’ve seen him enough in your nightmares let alone your daydreams to recognize him from miles away, he still catches you off guard, like some invisible force has swept you off your feet. A strange, tingling knot forms in the pit of your stomach, tightening then slackening then tightening again and even though it should be painful, it’s not. It’s…peculiar, in a terrifying sort of way. Familiar, yet it surprises you every time.

You blame it on hormones.

Still, spotting Cedric Diggory amongst the bustling crowd has a way of reducing all your thunderous thoughts to mere whispers, chasing them into the base of your skull. You bite your lip, a calming, sanguine wave of relief washing over you, washing  _through_  you, trickling down your spine and filling the spaces between your ribs.

“You should talk to him,” Hermione gives an encouraging smile, “If the secret love letters are anything to go by, he’s really been missing you.”

“How did you find out about them?” You ask, incredulously, eyes wide and cheeks burning.

“I didn’t,” she laughs, “You just told me. Right now, actually.”

You glare at her, equal parts frustrated and impressed by her tactics, though you can’t fight the smile flirting around your lips. Knowing that he’s missed you and having someone verbally confirm it has two radically different effects on you, and both of them are good.

“What about you guys?” You ask, tossing a nervous glance at Harry. He’s stopped talking and is ignoring Ron as he watches you carefully, as though he’s trying to listen to your conversation. You think back to earlier that morning when he had grazed his thumb across your bottom lip, his touch meek and hesitant but at the same time curious and warm.

“(Y/N), we’ve just spent nearly two weeks together,” Hermione reassures you with a hand on your shoulder, “I’m sure Harry and Ron can forgive you for choosing to spend one train ride with Cedric. Besides, you might be able to ask him about the…” she trails off suggestively.

You turn back to Cedric, who is making his way through the crowd as you speak.

“Okay,” you smile, biting your lip, as you watch Cedric. He’s wearing a white v-neck beneath a denim aviators jacket and jeans. He’s even better than any fantasy you’ve ever seen of him. 

Several other girls seem to agree, because they giggle and whisper as he passes them, eyes following him until he’s standing in front of you. 

“Hello, (Y/N),” Cedric beams, blue eyes soaking you in warm, cerulean waters, “Hello Hermione.”

“Five minutes until boarding and departure,” a voice booms over the crowds, and you and Hermione glance at each other, an unspoken understanding passing between the two of you.

“I’ll go and get Ron and Harry,” Hermione murmurs, smiling, a silent suggestion dripping from her lips. She glances between you and Cedric one final time before flouncing away.

“So…” Cedric blurts, trailing off into an awkward silence.

“So,” You echo, grinning.

Cedric runs a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck. He gazes at you, blue eyes twinkling as they bashfully sweep over you.

“So,” Cedric repeats, fiddling with his shirt, “I was thinking that – if you want – we could, maybe, sit together?”

“What about your friends?” You ask, glancing back at the group of Hufflepuff seventh-years watching your exchange from a distance and grinning teasingly.

“Oh they’ll be fine,” Cedric flaps a dismissive hand in their direction. He seems to know that they’re watching and no doubt joking amongst themselves, “They’re not babies.”

You nibble your smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the folded photo in your pocket seems lighter already, “Okay.”

Cedric smiles, and it’s as though he’s been kissed by sunlight.

* * *

 

Somehow, you end up sitting crossed-leg on the floor, blindfolded and at Cedric’s mercy.

He shifts, leaning forward, and he’s so  _close_ , close enough for you to breathe in the scent of his shampoo and bottle it inside your ribcage like a fine wine. You inhale, trying to drink him in and you taste sunlight on your tongue; warm and reassuring and melting your fears away.

“Okay, I promise this one isn’t a gross one,” Cedric says, and you can almost hear the smile on his words. There’s a scratchy rustling of a cellophane plastic bags, and the scrape of thin, flimsy cardboard like it’s been ripped open, “Ready?”

You nod and part your lips. A moment later, Cedric pops the jelly bean between your lips and you bite down, strawberries and cream oozing onto your tongue.

“Mm,” you hum, smiling, “Strawberries and cream.”

“I love that one,” Cedric confesses, “You’re good at this game.” 

You shrug triumphantly, “I’m good at anything to do with food.” 

There is a brief moment of silence while you enjoy the jelly bean as the rich, creamy flavour melts down your throat. But the silence continues, lingering, stretching, and even though you’re blindfolded, you can still sense hesitation in the air.

“Is there something wrong?” you ask. A beat of silence passes, where you assume Cedric has just shaken his head because he gives a little laugh.

“No, nothing is wrong,” He murmurs, “I’m just…admiring how beautiful you are.”

You feel a blush creep up your neck and burn in your cheeks, the knot in your stomach tightening, but the feeling fades a little as you feel Cedric trace a finger down your jaw, his thumb dragging across your cheek. You lean into his touch, your entire body tingling with anticipation, as you sense him shift closer, closing the inches between you, and he’s so  _close_ , you can feel his lips ghosting over your own, testing, hesitating, and  _Merlin it’s happening, it’s really happening–_

Shattering glass echoes down the corridor and you and Cedric jerk apart.

“What was that?” Cedric asks, and you push your blindfold over your head, climbing to your feet.

“I’m not sure,” you muse, sliding the compartment door open and stepping out of the compartment.

You immediately want to shrink back into the room.

Draco Malfoy is prowling the corridor with his goons, Crabble and Goyle in tow, following him loyally like a persistent shadow. They look as though they’ve just won a fight and they’re basking in their glory, snickering amongst themselves like scheming snakes. You start back toward your compartment, but you already know it’s too late; you can sense Draco’s pale-blue eyes roaming over you like a predator assessing its prey.

“Don’t suppose you’ve heard the news yet, Arden?” he asks, smugly, knowing that you have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.

“I really don’t care,” you sigh, exasperated with the conversation, “Now excuse me–”

“–you’re excused,” he drawls, like he’s bored already, “Though I’d watch my back if I were you. Potter seems to be in a miserable mood lately. You ought to find yourself better friends.”

You glare at him, blood pulsing hot and red and burning the cushion of your veins, “Don’t tell me what I  _ought_  to do, Malfoy. I’ve always been patient with you, but that doesn’t mean you can  _push_  me.”

“I can do what I want, and you know it,” he scorns, an annoying, haughty glint in his eye, “I can  _get_  what I want, too.”

Crabble and Goyle, snigger trollishly.

“And what is it that you  _want_ , Malfoy?” you ask, a sharp brow raised indignantly as you stare at him.

Malfoy’s eyes glitter with shades of blue and silver as they study you, sweeping across every fine detail on your face, and there is something distinctly masked about his expression like he’s showing you something he shouldn’t be as he contemplates, hesitates, before scoffing,

“Just–watch yourself. You and Potter think that you’re invincible, prancing around like little lovers. But you shouldn’t trust anyone.”

Your scowl turns into mild interest as you narrow your eyes on him, recognizing his thinly-veiled threat.

“What is that supposed to mean, Malfoy? And why are you telling–” you trail off into a stutter, blinking in disbelief. 

_Are they trying to warn you about something? Are they saying you can’t trust anyone?_

The photo in your pocket itches. You wrench it out of your pocket and unfold it hastily, fingers fumbling around the edges.

“Do you know what this is?” you ask, thrusting the photo into his hands.

Draco sniffs as he stares down at it, flattening it out so he can get a better look. His expression shifts, rippling with more expressions you’ve ever seen before, before he settles on disdain.

“It’s a photo, Arden. I can’t believe I had to tell you that,  _Merlin_.”

You roll your eyes, seething, as you snatch the photo from his grasp and shove it into your pocket. “I know that. I mean, did you have anything to  _do_  with it?”

Draco scoffs, narrowing his eyes on you with haughtily, “Do you really think the world is that obsessed with you? Of course not. Not everyone is in love with you.”

“That’s not what–you know what? It doesn’t matter. You don’t deserve another minute of my time,” You whirl around and storm off, reaching for the handle of the compartment door when Draco suddenly calls out.

“Underwood.”

You’re not sure if you heard him at first, until you turn around and notice that he had strode toward you to catch up. Draco’s eyes travel between you and the photo in your pocket.

You furrow your brows in confusion, “Excuse me?”

“Underwood,” Draco reiterates, “Noah Underwood. You know, the only person weirder than Potter? He’s in our year. It looks like one of his photos. He’s the only idiot I know who uses a stupid, muggle camera.”

You cock a single brow as your eyes scan Draco’s face, giving him an appraising look, “How do I know if what you’re telling me is the truth?”

“Just ask him,” Draco snips, coldly, “You’ll know then.”

“Is everything okay here?” someone asks from behind you, and you turn to find Cedric watching your exchange with Draco suspiciously.

Draco’s expression falters, something malicious flashing in his eyes, like a fork of lightning splitting the sky in half.

“Everything’s fine,” you say, soothingly, “This conversation is over.”

Draco shoves past you and disappears down the corridor, his eyes never leaving yours as he passes. You absentmindedly pat the photo in your pocket.

 _Noah Underwood_. Draco was right about him being a little…odd. He was alone, a lot of the time, people were probably repelled by his standoffish personality. You didn’t really know well, having only spoken when it was absolutely necessary (for instance, in Potions you had once been paired with him and even then, the only words that he murmured were soft-spoken instructions that you could barely hear over the bubbling potion) but what you did know was that he is currently the only muggleborn in Slytherin and that his sister died last year in an unfortunate accident.

In a way, you pitied Noah Underwood.

You wait until Draco is out of earshot before turning to Cedric, peering up at him apologetically.

“I’m sorry to do this to you but I have to go and talk to Hermione,” you say, giving him a meek smile. Cedric smiles, understanding without verbalizing it, and drags a gentle finger up your jaw, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Your heart swells at the affectionate gesture and, without even comprehending what you’re doing, you reach up and give him a quick peck on his cheek.

You breathe in the subtle notes of his cologne and savour them in your chest as your lips linger for a second longer than necessary. Cedric winds an arm around your waist, holding you to his chest for a brief moment, where you can hear the rhythmic beating of his heart. You have to muster every ounce of your willpower to tear away from his side and flash him a smile before flouncing away.

When you finally reach Hermione, Harry and Ron’s compartment, you wrench open the door and stumble inside, noticing the air shift around you.

There’s an undisguisable tension that weighs heavy in the air. Ron’s arms are crossed over his chest, Hermione is reading a book, and Harry is staring out of the window. It looks as though they’ve just had another argument.

_Another argument that they’ve had without me_

“Hey, (Y/N),” Hermione smiles, lowering her book. There is a faint brush of red over her cheeks, recognizable only to those who truly know her, “Is everything alright?”

“Can I speak to you for a second?” you ask, ignoring the penetrative stare that Harry’s eyes are drilling into you.

Hermione nods, standing, before following you out of the compartment. You pull her aside, enabling others to pass as you talk.

“I think I know who took the photo of me and Cedric,” you murmur, and Hermione’s brows shoot up toward her hairline as you continue, “Draco recognized the photo as one of Noah Underwood’s.”

“What?” Hermione breathes, brows creased in thought, “How can you trust that Draco is telling the truth?”

“I can’t,” you sigh, shrugging, “But I’ve got nothing to lose by asking him. I have to follow every lead I find.”

“But (Y/N)–”

“Hermione, Noah Underwood is the key to all of this,” you whisper, trying to convince yourself that it’s true, “I know it.”

_And even if I’m wrong, I still have to get to the bottom of this_


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this in one! day! can you believe it?? Anyway, some things worth mentioning: a) after this chapter, things are going to start progressing quickly through the months. So far its sort of been day by day but this story has to span over three years so…yeah. I can’t drag it on for too long b) I’m going away for a week so I’m not sure when part seven will be released. Anyway, i'll shut up now. Enjoy babes ilysm thanks for sticking with me.
> 
> Also to those people who comment and give me kudos??? you make my heart all funny but in a good way, like i've just jumped off a thrilling rollercoaster. Thank you guys, from the bottom of my heart. Love you all <3

_Everyone has secrets to hide_

The carriage ride up to Hogwarts is silent, tense and almost insufferable.

Ron’s barely spoken a word since his encounter with Draco, and though you weren’t present, you can only imagine how it went down. His mouth is twisted into a thin frown as he fixes a glare on the floor of the carriage, body rigid with frustration. A dark red flush singes the tips of his ears, a result of his sour mood that simmers beneath his skin.

Hermione keeps eying you with a calculating look, as though she’s dissecting your thoughts and body language and tagging each movement carefully. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line like she’s taming her words back into her throat and is silently forcing them into that spot beneath her sternum where all her other secrets lay hidden. She keeps fiddling with the hem of her robes, weaving the fabric between her fingers to stifle her nervous twitch.

Harry stares out the window, watching the rain and refusing to meet your eye in some sort of silent protest against you. He’s hard to read when he’s like this; silent and solemn and withdrawn into those deep, dark crevices in his mind. You think about reaching out and covering his hand with yours but think better of it.

Guilt plucks your ribs. You should never have left them.

It feels stupid, starting the school year like this. As a group, you’ve been through worse things. You’ve all faced bigger enemies and worse life-threatening circumstances. Why should a couple of secrets stand in the way of a friendship that has endured so much danger?

“So, what were you guys talking about before I arrived?” You ask, curiously glancing between Ron, Hermione and Harry. Harry bristles ever so slightly.

“We were just speculating about what Charlie and Bill were banging on about earlier,” Ron replies, hastily.

“Draco mentioned something too,” Harry snips, his voice clipped and cold.

“Something is supposed to be happening?” You ask, and Harry shrugs.

“I wish they’d just tell us already,” Ron whined, “I’ve had it with all this secrecy. Just spit it out already.”

“We’ll probably find out tonight,” Hermione deduces, and the carriage sinks into silence again.

Lightning forks across the sky, flooding the carriage with white light before evaporating in an instant. Raindrops feel like bullets pounding on the roof, trying to get inside.

“I can’t wait to eat,” you blurt, cradling your stomach, “The welcoming feast is all I’ve been thinking about…”

“Oh yes,” Hermione agrees, the beginning of a smile tickling her lips, “and I can’t wait to watch the Sorting Ceremony!”

“Welcoming the first years,” you smile fondly, “Merlin, remember  _our_  first year?”

“How could I forget?” Hermione sighs, “That was the year we first learned Wingardium Leviosa!”

“So you’re not going to mention the fact that our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was a fraud with You Know Who attached to his head like some sort of evil fungus?” Ron snaps, coldly.

Hermione narrows her eyes and speaks carefully, composedly, “Well, yes, I thought that was fairly obvious though-”

“Aw, remember  _Norbert_?” you interject, hurriedly, “Remember watching him hatch?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, distantly, “Remember how hard it was to smuggle him out of Hogwarts?”

“Ooh and you impersonated the Bloody Baron to keep Peeves off our tracks? That was so clever…”

You catch a hint of a smile ghosting across Harry’s face, though it’s obscured by the low light, “We still got in trouble, though,”

“It was worth it,” you say, thinking back to Hagrid’s concerned face, “I can’t imagine what sort of trouble Hagrid would have gotten into if he was discovered. And Norbert was such a cute, little baby…”

“That ‘cute little baby’ nearly killed me,” Ron snaps, fingers grazing the scar on his hand.

Hermione scoffs, “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

“Uh, no, not really,” Ron barks, indignantly, “Unless you forgot about the part where I was in the Hospital Wing for weeks after that thing poisoned me with its tiny, little devil fangs.”

“Ron, he bit you out of self-defence.”

“Well maybe if Hagrid were more strict-“

“-Don’t blame Hagrid for your own stupidity-“

“-Oh, so now I’m stupid?”

“-Well, only a fool would try to feed a dragon at  _night._ ”

“We’re nearly there!” You exclaim, deliberately raising your voice over Ron and Hermione’s argument. You point out of the window to the Hogwarts castle, using it as a distraction from the knot tugging in your stomach.

A heavy silence looms over the carriage again. Ron and Hermione have turned away from each other, both of them stubbornly staring out of the window. You glance at Harry who glances back at you uneasily, and though it’s only a brief exchange, a shimmer of hope bursts inside of you.

Harry looks away, unaware of your hovering fingers that draw closer to his hand, reluctant to touch the skin of his knuckles. Before you can make contact, the carriage rolls to a stop and, to your regret and dismay, the opportunity passes.

The carriage doors fly open, and Ron and Hermione slip out wordlessly. Harry gives you a side glance before climbing out himself. You follow his lead and quicken your pace to catch up with him and Ron. The four of you bow your heads to avoid the rain and climb up the flight of steps hastily. By the time you reach the great, oak doors, you are completely soaked and shivering against the cool air.

The doors swing open and you all pile into the entrance hall, dripping wet as you slip and slide across the floor. The doors close shut behind you as you crowd around the entrance hall, waiting for Professor McGonagall.

“Hey, (Y/N),” says a meek voice from behind you and Neville Longbottom’s shy, dimpled face comes into view, “How were your holidays?”

“Hi, Neville,” you beam, “They were…eventful. Thanks for asking. How were yours?”

Neville glances at his feet, “The opposite, actually. I had to help Nan with her bunions. They’re the size of golf balls and the only thing that helps shrink them is this cream made from mandrake puss and garden-knome salvia. Then I had to poke a hole in her bunions and–oh my god, why am I telling you this?”

Neville smacks his forehead with such a loud slap, it nearly startles you. He winces and rubs the red mark emerging right in the middle of his forehead, “You probably don’t want to hear that.”

You chuckle at his bashful expression and loop your arm through his, “It’s okay. But before I forget, I should thank you for sending me your Herbology book. It worked miracles.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” he murmurs, fumbling with his robes, “Just helping a friend in need.”

“Well it certainly helped me, big time,” you say, giving him an encouraging smile, “I’m absolutely rubbish at Herbology but that book really helped me with my essay. I have it in my trunk so when we get back to the castle, I’ll give it back to you.”

“Nah, you can have it,” Neville shrugs, not meeting your eye, “I mean, if you want it, that is..”

You consider him fondly in the low light, clamping your bottom lip between your teeth thoughtfully. Neville glances at his feet, ducking his chin to hide his blush.

“That’s very generous of you…thank you.”

Neville shrugs again, all sweet and bashful, an adorable, pink flush rising up his neck.

“So,” Neville starts, scratching the back of his neck, “How come you weren’t with Harry today, in the compartment? I missed you…”

“Oh, I was sitting with…another friend,” as you say it, a thought pops into your head and you perk up a little straighter, “Hey do you know anything about Noah Underwood?”

Neville’s brows furrow in thought, “Not really. He’s in Slytherin and he’s a muggle-born. Oh, and he hangs around the greenhouses a lot.”  

“He does?” You ask and Neville nods. You beam at him and wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug, “Thank you so much!”

Neville freezes at first, but his shock fades as he hugs you back, “No-No problem.”

“Hey! (Y/N)!” A familiar voice calls out to you from behind and you turn, finding Harper Shacklebolt charging toward you. The editor and chief of The Howler looks harried but determined and strikingly beautiful as she shoves a sixth-year Ravenclaw aside to reach you. Her braids are pulled back into a bun worthy of McGonagall’s praise, and she has the kind of fierce passion in her dark eyes that could strike fear in the hearts of all the boys around her.

“Hi Harper,” You smile, untangling yourself from around Neville’s shoulders “How were your holidays?”

Harper nods dismissively, “They were fine. Listen, we’re having a meeting this evening after the welcoming feast in the Newsroom. Be there at eight thirty. There will be a few announcements and new members joining us.”

You nod and wave as she charges off, slipping into a second-year Hufflepuff as she leaves.

Beside you, Ron and Harry are engaged in a whispered conversation. You try to lean into the conversation, easing yourself closer slowly, slowly, slowly…

And then you’re slipping.

Harry catches you before you can hit the ground, his hands flying to your waist and holding you close. You’re close enough to feel his heart hammering in his chest, sending shockwaves down your spine. Harry tears his hands away from you a second too late. Beside you, Ron snorts a laugh and reaches over to pat your head affectionately.

“Sorry, (Y/N),” Neville splutters, blushing furious shades of red, “I–er–I didn’t mean to bump into you– I’m such an idiot–”

“No it’s okay,” you breathe, voice trembling as the warmth from Harry’s touch ghosts over your waist, heating your skin beneath your clothes. Neville opens his mouth to apologise more but he doesn’t get the chance.

Professor McGonagall dashes our of the Great Hall, nearly colliding with a student. 

“Well hurry up you lot,” She snaps, ironing her hands down the front of her robes as she composes herself, “The Sorting Ceremony will begin in ten minutes time and we have a  _very_ important announcement to make!”

* * *

 

The Howler’s Newsroom is alive with excitement.

Seven loyal and dedicated members of the weekly newsletter crowd around, chatting animatedly about the exciting announcement. It’s wonderful being back and seeing all the friendly faces that you have known since you joined last year. You watch them all with mild interest.

Anthony ‘Ant’ Goldstein, comic artist for the newsletter, hovers near the door looking exasperated as he listens to an excitable Colin Creevey, a new member to the team.

Standing next to Harper is Daisy Tate, a Slytherin in Harper’s year and also Head Photographer. She seems to be staring down at something, her stoic expression as bland as ever.  

Next to Daisy stands Troy Hammond, the Head Artist, who always has acrylic paint under his nails and a paintbrush tucked behind his ear. Troy has always been a kind and gentle person, always willing to sit and listen if you ever have problems, and he often finds himself doing so a lot. He also happens to be one of Cedric’s best friends…

Go figure

The last two members of the team are actually sitting on either side of you; Padma Patil, a Writer like yourself, and Dean Thomas, an artist. As you and Padma murmur excitedly, Dean sketches a quick portrait of you and Padma, the tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips as he concentrates.

“So  _that’s_  what all the fuss was about,” Padma’s eyes shimmer as her smile grows, “A Triwizard Tournament! How exciting!”

“I know!” You grin, twirling your quill in your hand, “My mum always used to tell stories to Luke and I when we were kids. Never thought it would happen though it’s a shame about Quidditch.”

“Yes, terribly,” Padma muses, but her smile reappears, “We’re going to have so much to write about this year in the Howler!”

“Indeed,” Harper says, and everyone falls silent at the sound of her voice, “Which is precisely what this meeting will be about. Before I continue, though, we will be introducing some new members to our team.”

Harper strides toward the door and pulls it open, and Juniper Cross enters. The Hufflepuff head girl looks startlingly beautiful with yellow flowers pinned to her thick Afro and a radiant smile drawn across her face. You hear the whole room exhale a breath of admiration in her presence.

“She always looks so lovely,” Padma whispers, equal parts in awe and envy of Juniper, “I think she uses that special antioxidant cream every night.”

You bite your lip as Juniper grins, standing next to Harper.

“Ah I’m so excited to be joining the team,” Juniper cheers, voice kind and sweet as honey, “I can’t wait to get to work with you all!”

“Don’t you have Head Girl duties or something?” Anthony blurts, and Harper shoots him a glare.

Juniper smiles gracefully, “Yes. But my role in this team will not be as predominant as the rest of you. With both Professor McGonagall blessing, I will be Head of the Astrology section of the newsletter.”

“Astrology section?” Anthony’s brows furrow, “Isn’t that just staring into a tea cup and hoping for the best?”

To everyone’s surprise, Juniper actually laughs.

“Don’t worry, at first I had my doubts about Astrology but then I discovered that some people have the gift, while others…” she trails off,  looking pointedly at Ant, “…Don’t. I find that it’s those who don’t have the gift that are sceptical, possibly because they’ve come to the realisation that Astrology chooses you, you don’t choose it.”

Ant quietens at that, having taken Junipers point seriously.

“Since we are on the subject of those with the gift,” Harper pipes up, stepping forward, “We also have two astrologers who will be joining the team.”

You are surprised for a second time in five minutes as you watch Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil enter the room. Parvati meets your eyes and waves excitedly. You grin back at her and Padma gives her a thumbs up. As Lavender and Parvati introduce themselves, you lean into Padma.

“I didn’t know Parvati and Lavender were joining the team,” you whisper and Padma stifles a giggle.

“It was a secret,” Padma murmurs back, “Sorry I didn’t indulge you.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“Thank you Lavender, Parvati,” Harper nods to both of them and they flinch as though she had narrowed a wand at them, “Now, our final member of the team will be joining the Photography department, so please welcome –”

Your eyes travel from Harper to the figure standing in the doorway, and with a slight shock, you realise exactly who the newest member of the team is…

“– Noah Underwood.”

Anger you didn’t realise you had flares inside of you, prior feelings of pity vanishing completely. How could someone possibly encroach on your privacy and then throw you into a week of emotional turmoil by sending a strange letter to you? The past week of conflicting emotions is a direct result of him and his stupid camera. Your fingers curl into fists beneath the table.

“Noah Underwood?” Padma hisses, eying him shrewdly, “The loner from Slytherin? What is Harper thinking?”

“Apparently, he’s a good photographer,” you snip, thinking back to the picture sitting in your pocket, and you can’t even hide the frustration from your voice as you study him closely.

The first thing you notice about him is how confusingly,  _annoyingly_  attractive he is, despite being freakishly tall and gangly, which is perhaps the reason why he slouches. He’s still wearing that black beanie that he hasn’t taken off his head since he first came to Hogwarts, and peaking out from beneath it are thick curls of raven-black hair. He’s also not wearing his Slytherin robes, which you find odd, but Noah is odd anyway so you figure it fits. Over the top of a black v-neck, Noah is wearing a leather aviator jacket that is a size too big for him, and black jeans.

“Can’t argue with that logic,” Dean whispers, “I’m glad Colin won’t be the only photographer on the team. It’s bad enough having to share a common room with him.”

Padma giggles into her elbow, and Harper’s eyes snap straight to her, drilling her with a glare. Padma coils submissively.

“Introduce yourself, Noah,” Harper orders, and Noah shrugs.

“I’m Noah,” he says, apathetically, his hands jammed into his pockets, “And I like photography more than I like people.”

There is a beat of silence, everyone slightly stunned by Noah’s blunt remark. Harper thoughtfully fiddles with the gold locket hanging from her neck.

“Good,” Harper nods, approvingly, “We’re not here to be friends, we’re here to work so you should fit right in.”

“Except fitting in isn’t really his ‘thing’,” Padma murmurs, and Dean snorts beside you.

“Alright, everyone take a seat,” Harper barks, and everyone rushes to their seats, “Our meeting will now begin.”

* * *

 

Noah is out of the door before you even get a chance to talk to him.

You feel rude as you give hurried apologies to your friends and shoulder past them, rushing for the door. To your surprise, he’s riding a skateboard down the corridor. It looks..strange, like it shouldn’t belong here (It doesn’t, but thats not the point.) 

“Noah,” you call, and he skids to a stop, stepping off his skateboard and turning to face you as you approach him in long strides, “I’m (Y/N) And–”

“-I know who you are,” Noah interrupts, studying you intently.

“Right. Anyway, I need your help with something.”

Noah cocks an eyebrow in mild interest as you reach into your pockets and retrieve the photo, thrusting it into his grasp with slightly trembling hands.

“You took this photo, and I want to know why.”

Noah studies it, his face a mask of apathy, completely unreadable despite your best efforts. As his eyes move across the picture, you can’t help but notice how unnervingly dark they are. In fact, his eyes are so dark, you can’t tell where his irises end and his pupils begin. They’re the kind of dark that makes you wonder how many souls he’s absorbed, and the way they glint in the light suggests he’s probably lost count.

Finally, he sniffs and hands it back to you.

“I don’t know what this is,” Noah finally snips, his voice a lot deeper than you remember, “It’s not one of mine. I wasn’t at the Quidditch World Cup.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say, sternly, folding your arms across your chest.

“I don’t care if you believe me. I wasn’t there.”

You glare at him, fists clenching the inside of your robes. He is a blank slate, not even an inch of emotion flicking across his face despite the fact that you’re accusing him of something he may or may not have done. You try to even your emotions, trying to keeping your face a calm and composed canvas.

“If you weren’t there, then why was this photo identified as one of yours?” You ask, jutting your chin at the photo in his hands.

“Who identified it?” Noah queries, and you press your lips together tightly.

“A source.”

Noah scoffs, indignantly, “Well, whoever they are, they’re wrong,” Noah sighs, handing you the photo, “My muggle camera went missing and, like I already told you, I wasn’t at the Quidditch World Cup.”

“Well, where were you?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Does it matter?”

Noah gives a derisive snort, “Yes. It does. To me, the person you’re accusing of stalking. So if you don’t have any hard evidence, I’m going to go back to my common room.”

“Why? So you can retreat into your room and sulk?” You snap, hands resting on your hips.

There is a moment where it looks as though Noah is going to smile. Instead, he shakes his head.

“Yeah. That’s right. Because that’s what I do when people stereotype me as the weird, lonely photographer who obsesses over pretty girls…”

You exhale a shaky sigh as you realise that he’s right. It was wrong for you to allow your pent-up emotions to overwhelm you. You roll your shoulders, relaxing into your robes.

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry, that was wrong,” you murmur, glancing at your feet, “You said that your camera went missing. When did you first notice it was gone?”

“At the end of last year,” Noah answers, folding his arms over his chest, “Someone must have pinched it on the train back to Platform 9 ¾. I’ve printed out fliers and I’m on my way to Professor Snape right now to inform  him.”

You nod carefully, taking mental notes. It’s hard to tell if he’s lying, having such a perfectly trained expression.

“Okay. Thanks, I guess,” you murmur, folding the photo and slipping it into your pocket. Noah shrugs, dropping his skateboard, and you turn, starting back toward the Newsroom.

“Oh, and (Y/N),” Noah calls and you pause, “You wanted to know where I was on the day of the World Cup?” 

You spin around and face him, mildly interested as you nod. Moonlight pours through the glass-stained windows and soak him in a ghostly silhouette, like a dark angel standing in the corridor.  

“I was in London, visiting my sisters grave,” He murmurs, coldly, regret bleeding into his words like scarlet-red blood. 

He quickly turns away and rides off before you can say another word, leaving you speechless, guilt climbing into your gut and curling up there like a beast. 

* * *

 

“So, how was the meeting?”

Hermione sits crossed-legged on her bed, running her fingers through Crookshanks fur.

“Don’t tell anyone yet but we have a new Astrology section making its debut next week,” You say, as Nightshade curls up at your side. You smirk at Hermione’s exasperated scowl.

“I thought Harper Shacklebolt was more dignified and logical than that,” Hermione snips, agitated by the new discovery, “It doesn’t matter, I still admire her. Anything else?”

“Well, we also have new members,” you start, reaching into your bedside table and grabbing a small handful of cat treats for Nightshade, “One of them is Noah Underwood.”

Hermione gasps, “Really? Merlin. Did you-“

“-Already one step ahead of you,” you giggle as Nightshade begins to nibble her treats from your cupped palm. Her tongue is slightly serrated, and it tickles as she scrapes it along your soft skin, “Noah wasn’t even at the World Cup, he was visiting his sisters grave on the day which made me feel bloody terrible for drilling him as though he were a criminal. But he’s  _still_  a suspect.”

Hermione stands and pins his name to your pinboard, her brows knitted together in contemplation as she studies the board.

“So he has an alibi,” she sighs, as Crookshanks curls himself around her leg, “Did he say anything else?”

“Well, he told me that his muggle camera went missing on the way home from Hogwarts,” you recall, standing and meeting Hermione in front of the board. You scribble ‘ _Missing Camera_ ’ onto a piece of paper and pin it beneath his name, “So either someone stole it or he’s lying.”

“Well, do you think he’s lying about his alibi?” Hermione asks, glancing at you thoughtfully.

You cock your head as you study each letter of his name, mulling Hermione’s words over, before murmuring, “I don’t trust him, but I don’t think he’s lying.”

Hermione nods, satisfied with your response. You both stare at the pin board for a moment longer, lost in your thoughts. The sound of girlish giggling sounds from behind your closed door, sweeping up the dormitory staircase like a sickly-sweet breeze, and you approach the board.

“ _A mouse does not trust a hungry snake_ ,” you murmur in Latin,  pressing your wand to the board and watching as the pinboard vanished into the wall. Hermione glances at you, impressed.

“Nice charm work,” she smiles.

“Thanks,” you chirp, “Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs gave me the idea.”

Hermione opens her mouth to comment further, but Lavender and Parvati burst in before she can.

“(Y/N),” Lavender manages through giggles, “You have a visitor.”

Parvati giggles and whispers something to Lavender, which provokes girlish laughter to bubble from Lavenders lips.

“Okay,” you sigh, and Hermione gives you a pleading look. You smile at her apologetically, “Thanks, Lavender.”

Your curiosity piqued, you give Nightshade a final pat and leave your room, descending the staircase and entering the common room. Neville and Ginny smile at you from their game of Wizard Chess as you pass, and you flash them a smile.

“Where are you off too so late at night?” Ginny asks, a single brow raised teasingly.

“Someone is waiting for me outside,” you reply, grinning at her expression as the portrait door swings open, “It’s probably just some weirdo-“

You stop mid-sentence, a burning blush creeping up your neck.  

“Hi, (Y/N).”

Cedric Diggory’s perfect smile beams at you, eyes shimmering, hands lazily wedged into his pockets.

“Oh, Cedric, H-hi,” You splutter, stupidly, feeling like a bitch for the second time tonight, “I didn’t mean what I - I mean - I don’t think you’re a-”

“- A weirdo?” Cedric mimics, his smile stretching into a grin, “I know. I probably am a weirdo for visiting so late in the evening but…I wanted to see you.”

“Me too,” you smile, your heart clumsy and foolish and swelling in your chest, “I mean, I wanted to see you as well…”

Cedric laughs, and the sound plucks every single heart string in your chest as though it were an instrument designed just for him.

“I’m glad,” he reaches over and tentatively takes your hand, “I want to show you something.”

You bite your lip, chewing your nerves away, fingers intertwining with his and soaking in the warmth of his skin.

“Well, go on girl,” the Fat Lady snaps from behind you, “Before I figure out a way to leave this painting and take off with such a charming, young man.”

A gentle, romantic shade of pink kisses Cedric’s cheek, “I appreciate the compliment, Ma’am, but I could never betray the trust of the beautiful girl I’ve come to like…” he gazes pointedly at you. You twirl a ribbon of hair around your finger, hoping your cheeks are not as red as they feel.

“Such a gentleman,” you hear the Fat Lady swoon from behind you as Cedric leads you into the night.

* * *

 

The Prefects Bathroom looks as though it’s been stolen from a romance novel and pinned in front of your eyes.

Floating candles hover in the air, scenting the bathroom with a subtle fragrance that changes the more you breathe in. It’s like Cedric’s bottled a cauldron of Amortentia and poured it into each, individual candle.

Rose petals have been sprinkled artistically across the floor, creating a trail that leads to a chocolate fondue machine and a large bowl of fruit and marshmallows. There is a bottle of what you can only assume is sparkling cherry-apple juice, a sweet delicacy enjoyed only by the richest of wizards and witches, and a personal favourite of yours ( _how did he know? Could he get any more perfect, the bastard)._

Your eyes are drawn to the most touching feature in the room; An elegant bouquet of fire lilies. It’s a memento from your and Cedric’s past, a personal touch that has your heart swelling, overflowing the confines of your ribcage like a bubbling love potion inside the cauldron in your chest.

You bite your lip and inhale the sweet scents, releasing a sigh of satisfaction as you store the moment deep inside your lungs like a Polaroid picture.

“Wow” You finally sigh, reduced to moonstruck awe and admiration of Cedric’s dedication, “You really went all out didn’t you?”

Cedric regards you warmly, “I guess I’m just a hopeless romantic. Besides, I wanted to give you the best, that’s what you deserve.”

Cedric tugs his bottom lip between his teeth like he’s blurted too much, and your cheeks ache as your smile widens on its own accord.

“So…” you trail off, stepping closer to him and teasing him with a smirk, “Did you fancy a late night skinny dip?”

Cedric snorts a laugh, watching you with glittering eyes, “Not exactly.”

You grin wickedly at him, maintaining eye contact as you carefully peel back your robes, “Well I do.”

A rosy blush blossoms on Cedric’s cheeks, “Oh, I-I guess this is happening, then.”

You laugh as you whirl around, your back to his chest, “Do you mind unzipping my skirt?”

“Not at all,” he murmurs, voice warm and low in your ear, and a shiver drips languidly from each vertebra in your spine like long, amber strands of honey. He fiddles clumsily with the zip before finally triumphing and tugging on it gently. Once the zip is undone, he steps away and turns around, giving you privacy as you strip down to your underwear and climb into the large, golden bath.

You sigh and close your eyes as the warm water soaks into your skin, rejuvenating your muscles. The water shifts and ripples around you and you open your eyes, finding Cedric by your side. He’s close, though you can still make out the defined muscles of his torso, occasionally flexing in the water. He’s an amalgam of masculine strength and gentle softness, strong but unassuming, certain but meek and oddly vulnerable. It’s disarming, and it makes you feel like he’s giving you control, reassuring you that he’s willing to stay within any boundaries you have carefully constructed.

In short, he’s the handsome gentleman every teenage girl dreams of having.

“I hope this is okay,” Cedric murmurs, shyly.

“Okay?” You echo, smiling broadly, “This is perfect, Cedric. It’s exactly what I needed.”

Cedric smiles and pours you a glass of cherry-apple juice. For what feels like hours, the two of you sit and enjoy each other’s company, laughing and joking and indulging in the fondue treats. The outside world seems to melt away like you and Cedric have created a pocket of your own universe where everything is whimsically romantic and surreal and seeped in sepia and nothing like the corrupt reality outside of this bubble that is threatening to devour it.

For the first time in a week, you finally feel calm, like Cedric is a home not build from bricks or marble but a home built by teenage dreams.

“Thank you, again,” you sigh, savouring the taste of chocolate on your tongue, and Cedric flashes a warm, genuine smile.

“It was nothing. Seriously, all of this is nothing compared to–” Cedric stops, bites his lip and smooths it over with the tip of his tongue.

“Compared to?” You watch him as he sighs, conceding.

“Compared to how you make me feel.”

You blink at him, wondering with a feeling of dread whether this is all a dream, and you pinch yourself just in case. When you realise it’s not, you smile, the weight and length of it nearly splitting your face in half, your heart feeling like an overgrown pumpkin from Hagrid’s patch, because this is  _real_ , and nothing really matters anymore, none of it, because he’s moving closer and so are you and he’s bending down and you’re reaching up, and he’s raising a hand to your cheek and you’re parting your lips, waiting, yearning for that earth-shattering moment when your lips will finally meet, and  _Merlin_ this is not a dream, not anymore–

A peel of gleeful laughter fills the air.

You and Cedric wrench apart, startled by the intruder, who floats over to you grinning for the first time in what you suspect has been many years.

“So the pretty girl has found someone who’s willing to kiss her,” Moaning Myrtle sneers. She narrows a glare on you when she recognises Cedric, “And it’s the handsome one, too.”

“Could we have some privacy, please Myrtle?” You snap, acutely aware of the flimsy pieces of underwear you’re currently wearing.

Myrtle’s bottom lip quivers, “I get awfully lonely here by myself, yet you have all the boys drooling over you like you’ve cast a spell on them. It’s simply not fair.”

“I’m-I’m sure you’ll find someone, Myrtle,” Cedric offers, expression kind and hopeful.

Myrtle heaves a sigh, “Someday, maybe,” her gloomy, transparent face suddenly lights up with glee, “But I’ll relish in telling the Boy who Lived that the girl he’d die for has found someone else to go on adventures with.”

You steel your spine and look her directly in the eye, speaking firmly, “Myrtle, please. I think it’s time you left.”

Myrtle sighs, defeated, her eyes welling up with tears, “Fine! I will! But, just so you know, I’ll be his shoulder to cry on…metaphorically speaking.”

And with that, Myrtle disappears into the pipes, her wails echoing through the bathroom.

* * *

 

 

Cedric drops you off with a goodbye kiss on the cheek that makes you feel like a burning sunset; warm and beautiful and seeped in daydreams.

You manage to float up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory without tripping, creep into your bedroom, and change into your pyjamas without waking anyone, a skill you’ve practised since knowing Harry Potter.

The girls are already fast asleep, curtains drawn on the four-poster beds and curled beneath the sheets. Hermione is even muttering in her sleep.

Climbing into bed, you pull the sheets right up to your nose and grin goofily, thankful that no one can see you. Your churning anxiety doesn’t seem so overwhelming in this moment, Cedric washing away your fears like a river of holy water. And, though you’re life may be shrouded in mystery, at least Cedric can be your guiding light, the single truth you can cling to.

You fall asleep smiling, oblivious to what the next few weeks have in store.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Righteo I am back from holidays and am presenting y’all with Chapter Seven!! As I said before, things are going to be moving along quickly now that I have most of the characters and their backstories away so yeah. Not sure when Chapter 8 will be released at this point so stay tuned! p.s. if you’re Russian or know Russian…i am s o r r y google translate is the worst. 
> 
> THANK YOU to all your comments, im sorry i never reply :/ just know that they are appreciated, ya girl gets a buzz everytime the notification pops up and literally stays with me for the rest of the WEEK thank you, thank you, thank you.

You’d think that - with such a huge secret to hide - your friends would be better at lying.

Today marks the third consecutive day you’ve walked in on a conversation that has abruptly come to an end, and to say it’s irritating would be the understatement of the century. It’s...grating, being cast into the shadows by your own best friends. It makes you feel like you’re standing on the outside peering in on something that is rapidly growing bigger than anything you can handle.

You’d hoped that when the Beauxbaton and Durmstrang students arrived last night, they would have dropped the cloaked secrecy and the furtive glances and left whatever was happening over the holidays behind. But they continue their murmured conversations when they think you’re not paying attention like they’re conspiring against you, and it has you wondering what you’ve done to warrant such behaviour.

You’ve thought about confronting them, but you’re afraid you might scare them away. You’ve even tried to pry, but they know you too well; Hermione has always caught on and Ron and Harry never elaborate. It genuinely feels like you’re stuck in a loop like a dog chasing its tail, going round and round without achieving anything or finding any answers.

Your feelings of hurt and anger come screeching to a halt when you realise you have secrets of your own. Your investigation into the anonymous letter you received over the holidays has trailed off into dead ends and cold leads, for neither you nor Hermione knows what the strange snake symbol on the back of the photo means. Hermione pointed out that the snake eating itself is called an Ouroboros, and symbolises the cyclical nature of life. Alternatively, she offered the theory that it could represent how we all eventually become our own destruction, but you’re not sure how that relates to you and Cedric...

Still, it’s a secret you’re keeping shielded from Ron and Harry, and it will remain that way for now.

So when you come down the stairs from the girls dormitory and into the Gryffindor common room early Saturday morning, you try to keep calm, composed and unsurprised that Ron and Hermione’s whispered conversation has trailed off into an awkward silence. You swallow back your frustration and plaster a smile you hope looks natural.

“Morning,” you chirp, cheerily.

“Morning, (Y/N),” Ron and Hermione say in unison. You settle onto the arm of Ron’s chair and he reaches up to softly pat your head.

“Where’s Harry?” You ask, glancing around the room curiously. There is a beat of silence, hesitation hanging heavy in the air.

“Gone for a walk,” Ron finally says, “He’s been worried about Si- er -  _Snuffles_ ,” Ron quickly corrects himself as a group of guffawing third years stroll past him.

“Yeah,” you sigh as you recall Harry telling the three of you about his most recent letter to Sirius, “You think Snuffles will be able to tell Harry’s lying?”

“Oh, of course,” Hermione says, “Snuffles is far too clever and he knows Harry quite well. I don’t know why Harry even bothered trying to lie to him.”

“He just doesn’t want Snuffles to worry,” you reply, softly, understandingly, thinking of the secret pin board hanging on your wall with an irritating pinch of guilt, “He doesn’t want Snuffles to get sent back to - ah -  _the kennel_  just because of him. And, honestly, if I were in Harry’s position, I would have done the same.”

“If you were in Harry’s position,” Hermione snips, composedly, “You wouldn’t be so stubborn!”

“Are you sure about that?” Ron asks, glancing uneasily at you. You rub a bead from your bracelet between your fingers, nails grazing across your wrist.

“What are you two on about?” You ask, impatiently, glancing between the two of them and gulping back the irritation climbing up your throat.

Ron’s mouth falls open to explain but he doesn’t get a chance to. He’s interrupted by the portrait door, which swings open with a low groan and reveals a thoughtful Harry Potter, looking pensive a little unhinged. When he spots you, he flashes a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Morning,” he greets, walking over to the three of you, “You guys ready for breakfast?”

You all nod in agreement and follow Harry out of the common room, heading toward the Great Hall. Ron and Hermione stride ahead, keeping a fair amount of distance between them as they begin to argue. Not wanting to be the mediator to one of their many fights, you decide to hang back with Harry. At least you’ll be able to chat with him alone for the first time in over a month.

“So...” you begin, slowly, “I’ve noticed that you're-you haven’t been yourself. Are you worried about - you know - Snuffles?”

Harry glances uneasily at his feet, raking a hand through his hair. It bristles rebelliously, standing atop his head like an electric shock.

“Yeah - I mean - I know Snuffles can handle himself but I just...” Harry tugs his bottom lip between his teeth as he tries to string his words together, “...He’s the only real family I have now. And if I could - if I could just move away from the Dursley’s and live with Snuffles forever I would, y’know? But I don’t want to lose him like I lost...” Harry trails off into silence, fidgeting with his glasses.

You smile softly at him, leaning into him and looping your arm through his. He stiffens at first, which you find odd since you’ve always been the affectionate sort and Harry has grown accustomed to your random acts of affection, but then he relaxes into you and you let it slip your mind. You breathe in the smell of mint and tea, visualising the way the scent blossoms in your lungs like spring flowers in a vase.

“You know, Snuffles isn’t your only family,” you say, softly, carefully, with as much authenticity as you can muster, “Hermione, Ron...me. We’re your family too, always. We’re just as annoying as family, anway...”

Harry chuckles, the sound rumbling softly from the back of his throat in that way that always made you smile, “Yeah, I know. Thanks, I guess.”

“‘Thanks, I guess,’” you echo, poking him in the side and laughing as Harry recoils, “You are such a dork.”

You rest your head on Harry’s shoulder as you stroll down the hallways, smiling as the two of you slip into a comfortable silence.

For a few lingering moments, everything feels normal, like there isn’t a huge, gaping hole filled to the brim with all the things you have left unspoken. You miss these moments with Harry, where it had been the two of you without the invisible presence of something ominous looming over you. After all, Harry had met  _you_  first, in Flourish and Blott’s years ago, before Ron and Hermione and three-headed dogs, large Basilisks and soul-hungry Dementors. It had been you and Harry and an awkward encounter in a bookstore that had left a promise of friendship in the air and a goofy grin on your face.

You close your eyes, capturing this feeling in an imaginary jar like a mad lepidopterist catching butterflies.

As you approach the Entrance Hall, Harry clears his throat, puncturing the silent bubble that had formed around you.

“So - um,” Harry begins, awkwardly scratching his neck, “Can I - Can I ask you something?”

You lift your head from his shoulder, staring at him thoughtfully, “Of course, Harry.”

“Right,” he plays with his glasses again, fingers fumbling around the frame, “Right, well, uh, so there’s-there’s this girl-“

“-Ah, a  _girl_ ,” you grin teasingly and Harry flushes, “Do tell.”

“Right. Yes, well this girl, well I really like her and I’ve-I’ve liked her for a while now but I – I think – no – I  _know_  that she likes someone else... so what do I do?”

You knit your brows together, carefully turning Harry’s words over in your mind, “I would just talk to her, let her know how you feel. Does she-can you tell she really likes this person?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, sadly, his shoulders slumping a little, “Yeah I-yeah. She definitely likes this guy...”

“Oh,” you mumble, squeezing his arm, “Well, in that case, I think it’d be best to...um...not say anything for now. At the moment, I think you should just be yourself and support her and if she’s clever enough, she will catch on at some point...” you lick your lips and tug your bottom lip, “But don’t give up! Just because you can’t say anything now, doesn’t mean you won’t be able to later.”

“Uh-yeah,” Harry nods and swallows. You watch him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate and intrigued by the blush staining his cheeks, but he remains silent.

“Well?” You prompt, brows raised, “Are you going to tell me who this lucky girl is or are you going to leave me hanging?”

“Um...” Harry glances away, clears his throat, “Just a...uh...a girl. She’s a girl.”

You snort a laugh, slapping his shoulder playfully, “You already told me that. For real, though, what’s her name? Is she in our Year? Is she a Gryffindor? Ooh, do I know her?”

“I-I think so - I mean - yeah, well ” Harry stammers, cheeks crimsoning, “She’s...um...she’s–”

“(Y/N)!” calls a familiar, masculine voice from somewhere ahead of you, and you beam brightly, spotting your brother as he approaches. An impressively tall and handsome Durmstrang student strides beside him, piquing your interest as they draw closer.

“Good morning, Luke,” you grin archly, sliding your arm out from Harry’s. Luke ruffles your hair playfully and laughs at your disgruntled expression.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Luke teases, grinning, “You know you’d be lost without your full dose of Lukas Arden love. Hey Harry, my man.”

Luke turns to Harry, smirking as he raises his fist and swoops in for a fist bump with Harry. They briefly exchange pleasantries, joking and laughing as they usually do, but your attention is drawn to the Durmstrang student currently eying you like a wolf observing its prey.

He’s handsome, deceptively so; all chiselled features and all kinds of razor sharp edges. His dirty-blond hair is trimmed neatly and sleek, and he has these eyes, eyes that contain the same frenzied chaos of a collapsing star; grey-blue irises that dance and swirl around pupils that could suck you in like a black hole. He reminds you of crisp, paper bills and the cool edge of a blade; wealthy, businesslike and lethal, and there’s something ominous about him that screams trouble, something you can’t quite pinpoint.

“By the way, this is Kazimir Volkov,” Luke begins, gesturing toward his Durmstrang friend, “Or Kaz. Kaz, this is my sweet, little sister, (Y/N), and her best friend Ha-”

You roll your eyes in exasperation, “By ‘sweet, little sister’ he obviously means the superior sibling.”

“Vell, obviously,” Kaz says, his husky accent rolling off his tongue and flowing from his lips like a smoke signal. He takes your hand in his and places a delicate, tender kiss to it, “You cerrtainly arre the  _krasiveye_ ”

Kaz gently releases your hand, locking his gaze on yours. You’re temporarily taken off guard, heat rising into your cheeks as he gazes up at you with startlingly blue eyes. Kaz’s eyes finally flit away after a long moment, glancing at Luke, who smirks and gives a small shrug.

“Well, you’re not wrong.”

“Hang on, I think I’m missing something here,” Harry chimes in, brows knitted in mild confusion, “Krazavee?”

“ _Krasiveye_ ,” Luke corrects, “It means ‘Prettier One’ in Russian.”

“You speak  _Rrusskiy_?” Kaz asks, impressed.

“The Arden Children know many languages,” Luke explains, winking at you, “As you probably already know, Harry, (Y/N) is fluent in the Romance languages; Italian, French, Spanish. And I chose to study some of the more...difficult languages. It’s a family requirement.”

“Our father wanted us to learn different languages, including Latin,” You finish, not missing the way Luke bristles at the mention of your father, “Call it tradition.”

“Vell, it’s a pleasurre to meet other akademics,” Kaz remarks, smirking coyly at you.

“So Kaz,” you begin, awkwardly tickling the itch in your wrist, “Are you going to put your name in the Goblet of Fire?”

“I have niet interrest in selfish vanity zat zis tourrnament endorrses,” Kaz says, in a dismissive kind of tone, “I’m morre interrested in explorring new places and meeting new people,” Kaz stares pointedly at you and smirks.

“What about you, Luke?” Harry asks, and Luke smirks.

“I don’t need to enter some competition to know I’m a champion,” Luke replies, smugly, lips curling into a teasing smirk.

“Humble as always,” You snip, sardonically, rolling your eyes at Luke, “Anyway, Ron and Hermione are inside having breakfast and I think we’re going to go and visit Hagrid later on today so Harry and I better-“

“Harrry?” Kaz asks, arching an eyebrow and eying Harry with mild interest, as though really noticing him for the first time, “As in  _Ze_  Harrry Potterr?”

Harry nods, gaze flicking to his feet. Kaz’s smirk stretches sharply across his face.

“Ve have hearrd many interresting zings about you back in Rrussia. You arre something of celebrrity herre, da?”

“Um....” Harry mumbles, shrugging, “Yeah I-I guess.”

“Harry’s very modest,” Luke remarks, giving Harry a playful punch in the shoulder, “He’s like a rockstar around these parts, except with less drugs and more groupies.”

You frown at your brother as Harry flushes, cheeks as red as a freshly-plucked red rose. There is a beat of silence where you can feel Kaz’s curious eyes raking over you. You don’t meet his eye, instead choosing to stare at a loose thread on Harry’s shoulder.

Nearby, Cho Chang and her Ravenclaw friends walk past, her friends giggling girlishly and blushing when they spot Luke. Luke grins, winking and waving as they pass, but his eyes follow Cho as though drawn to her like a magnet. Cho glances at him and blushes, smiling gently at Luke. 

You tilt your head curiously, feeling the way your grin fills out across your lips.

“Anyway,” Luke suddenly blurts, “We had better-“ he jabs a thumb in the direction of his friends, who loiter with other Durmstrang students behind Luke and Kaz in the distance.

“It vas pleasurre to meet you both,” Kaz says, nodding to both you and Harry.

“You too,” you and Harry mumble in unison, and Luke snorts a laugh.

“Later, you two.” Luke gives Harry a cheery salute and ropes you into a one-armed hug, squeezing tightly. He laughs when you squirm, muttering curses into his chest until you manage to pull yourself free and rearrange your clothes.

Both of you watch Kaz and Luke return to their friends, Luke’s casual saunter looking embarrassingly lazy next to Kaz’s long strides.

“Well that was...interesting,” Harry notes, his eyes following Kaz as he leaves.

dYou open your mouth to agree but stop when you spot Noah Underwood from across the room. With a shock, you realise that he has been staring at you for quite some time, and he nods toward the courtyard, silently indicating for you to follow him. Reluctantly, you break away from Harry.

“I’m sorry Harry,” you murmur, giving him an apologetic look and ignoring the sharp sting of guilt in your chest, “Can we continue this discussion later? Something has just come up.”

Harry’s mouth flaps open, looking both stunned and oddly relieved.

“Yeah, sure. Sure, thanks for - er - for listening.”

You flash him a warm, gentle smile, “Anytime, Harry. I’m always here for you.”

With that, you break away from him and follow Noah toward the Courtyard, fixing a polite smile over your feelings of unease.

As you approach him, you can’t help thinking how odd it is, given that Noah has been so careful to avoid you over the past month or so. You’ve hardly spoken outside of The Howler meetings, only communicating when absolutely necessary, and even then he’s been coldly distant. But as you draw closer to him, you notice that there is a specific look about him; a touch of unease chipping the edges of his carefully arranged mask. It’s both unnerving and intriguing at the same time.

You step out into the Courtyard and are immediately met with a cool exhale of autumn air, tangling in your hair as ribbons of sunlight caress your cheeks.

“Morning Noah,” you smile, trying to swallow back your nerves, “How are-?”

“-I want to help with your investigation,” he interrupts, glancing at his feet.

You stare at him, bewildered by his request, “What? - I mean - Why?”

“I still haven’t found who stole my camera,” he explains, “And I really need to find it.”

“Why?”

Noah squints, furrowing his brows in equal parts confusion and offence as he folds his arms over his chest, “Why is it an issue?”

“It’s not,” You blurt, fiddling nervously with your bracelet, “I just-I-I don’t understand why you want to help me when – well – one, we don’t know each other very well and, two, you’ve been avoiding me for over a month.”

Noah scoffs, the corners of his lips quirking as though he’s trying to smile but doesn’t know how to, “That’s what I do. I avoid people, it’s nothing personal.”

You nod, nails scraping across the skin of your wrist, “Okay, well, that’s fair, but that still doesn’t answer my question.”

Noah licks his lips and considers you for a moment like he’s silently deliberating something over in his mind. It’s unnerving, having his dark  _dark_  eyes study you so intensely, as though he were peeling your flesh from bone and unstitching your thoughts, watching your secrets unspool into his hands and pin them down with razor-sharp needle points.

In the distance, a crow caws a low, gurgling noise that echoes through the silence, seconds feeling like hours under the intensity of his stare. Finally, after a long, uncomfortable pause, he concedes with a sigh, licking his lips and staring at his shoes.

“That camera was given to me by my sister, Maia,” Noah murmurs, so softly you can barely hear him, “It’s one of the only things I have left of her.”

A heavy, metallic-like ball of guilt hangs heavy in the bottom of your stomach as you chew the inside of your cheek, tongue swirling over the bite marks as you repeat the pattern.

“Right,” you mutter, heat rising to your cheeks, “I’ll-erm-talk to Hermione.”

Noah nods, his expression a blank canvas, before he leaves, abruptly. You watch him curiously, his robes billowing out behind him, his head ducked and his posture slouched like he’s trying to shrink into the tiniest of shadows. He makes you feel like you’re a villain every time you talk to him and you can’t help but wonder why...

The hairs at the back of your neck raise, a shudder crawling up your spine like a ladder. Goosebumps prickle your skin, sending chills throughout your body as you become aware of someone watching you.

You spin around, searching the courtyard, scanning every corner. Steeling your spine and squaring your shoulders, you clamp down on your fear, gripping the sides of your sleeves with fierce determination.

“Who’s there?” You ask, hating the way your voice trembles ever-so-slightly. You’re met with complete silence. You wait a moment longer, eyes squinting as you survey the area. A crow lands on a branch nearby, flapping its wings as it caws. It looks at you, cocks it’s head like it’s sizing you up, clips it’s beak like hungry, snapping jaws.

You exhale a shaky sigh of relief and whirl around, leaving the prickly feeling of paranoia behind in the courtyard as you make your way toward the Great Hall.

* * *

 

 

When you tell Hermione about your latest encounter with Noah in the library after lunch, she doesn’t even sound surprised.

“Interesting,” she muses from behind a large, dusty copy of  _A Brief History of House Elves_ , “Did you ask why he wants to join?”

You bite your lip a little too hard, tasting the metallic tang of blood on your tongue, “He still hasn’t found his camera and-and it was a gift from his sister.”

“Oh...”

“Yeah...”

A beat of contemplative silence passes, stretches, lingers. In the distance, Madam Pince hushes a group of giggling Ravenclaws gushing over a brooding Viktor Krum.

“Seems odd that he wants to help when all he’s getting out of it is his camera,” Hermione finally murmurs, regarding you over the top of her book.

“I know,” you sigh, pushing away  _The Registration Act for Magical Beasts Volume VI_ “But I-I can kind of understand him because...well...” your fingers find the bracelet hugging your wrist and plays with it, “If I ever lost this bracelet...”

Hermione’s eyes snap up to you from her book for the first time since you both arrived at the Library and her expression softens, “(Y/N)...”

“It’s okay,” you say, nonchalantly, as your fingers drift to a loose thread on the hem of your corduroy mini skirt, “No big deal.”

Hermione nibbles her bottom lip thoughtfully, internally weighing her options. Finally, she nods, “Okay. I mean, he can’t see the pin board but he can help. The more people involved in this, the better.”

You recognise her thinly-veiled suggestion and work your jaw, “No. Harry and Ron are not getting involved in this...”

“Why?” Hermione asks, briskly, “We’ve always done things together as a team. Why should this be any different?”

“Because it’s not about Harry or Hogwarts or saving the world,” you snap, earning a glare from Madam Pince, “This was sent to me, making it my problem. It’s personal. We worked as a team for Harry and for the safety of others. I need to do this to protect Cedric!”

Hermione falls silent, her expression softening once again. Her eyes move over you carefully, sympathetically, as though she were trying to stitch you together. You avert your gaze, cheeks burning. You hate it when she looks at you like that.

“I’m just...I’m going to go and get another book,” You mutter, tearing yourself away from the table. Hermione doesn’t say anything as you leave, and you’re not sure if that’s a good thing or bad thing.

You dash into an aisle and exhale a trembling sigh. Involving Harry and Ron would only create more problems. Whoever had sent this had made it personal, which was why they had dragged Cedric into it. They were reaching out to you, and whatever they want can’t be good. Harry has been through enough, he doesn’t need this.

“Something on your mind, Arden?”

You roll your eyes, working your jaw as you recognise the familiar, annoying drawl addressing you from behind.

“And why would you care, Malfoy?”

Draco Malfoy chuckles bitterly as you turn to face him, fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists by your side. He’s leaning against a bookshelf, arms crossed over his chest as his pale blue eyes sweep over you lazily.

“I don’t,” He sighs, lifting himself off the shelf and sauntering toward you, “Personally, I care more for that big oaf of a half-giants Blast-Ended Skrewts than I do about your childish dilemmas.”

You roll your eyes, again, “I prefer you as a ferret. At least then you knew to keep your fat mouth shut if you didn’t have anything nice to say.”

Draco’s nostrils flare, eyes glinting, “You seem more insufferable than usual, did you have a fight with your boyfriend?”

“Maybe I don’t like it when people are rude to my face,” you snap, coldly, “Have you ever thought of that?”

“It’s not that I haven’t thought of it,” Draco snips, “It’s just that I don’t care. At all.”

Your teeth clamp down on the inside of your cheek, biting hard enough to draw blood. This ruthless, verbal tug-of-war between the two of you could last a lifetime and you still wouldn’t have moved anywhere. Calmly, composedly, you straighten your spine and square your shoulders, releasing a heavy, exasperated exhale.

“Listen, Draco, I’m kind of going through a thing right now and I just - I just don’t want to argue with you. Please, just go...”

Draco arches an eyebrow, considering you shrewdly, “So you did have a fight with your little boyfriend?”

Angry tears prick your eyes and you spin around, storming down the aisle, trying to keep as much distance between you and Draco as possible.

“Arden!” Draco snaps, his voice hooking around you like a lasso and rooting you to the floor. You hear him approach you but you don’t dare to spin around, feeling a familiar sting in the back of your eyes, “Did you ask Underwood about the photo?”

You turn to face him and are immediately alarmed by how close he is to you. He stares down at you in mild interest, cold eyes suddenly brimmed with something strange, foreign almost, a look of mingled intrigue and curiosity and...concern? Guilt? You’re not sure, but you find it odd regardless.

“Yes,” you murmur, your thumb rubbing soothing patterns on your wrist, “He denies that it’s his photo.”

A course, indignant scoff scapes up the back of Draco’s throat, “He’s lying, Arden. I know it’s his photo-“

“-Why are you telling me this?” You blurt, interrupting him. Draco narrows his eyes on you as you continue, “Are you deliberately trying to mislead me for your own entertainment? Because it’s not just about me it’s about Cedric, too-“

“Ah, the boyfriend,” Draco huffs, expression contorting into a look of venomous disdain, “Of course it’s about him!”

“Well, why wouldn’t it be?” You snap, angrily, “He was in that photo, too, meaning he’s been dragged into whatever mess this is that I’m dealing with. So if you have one decent bone in your body, you will realise that and you will stop trying to antagonise me all the  _fucking_  time-!”

“-(Y/N)!” Hermione’s voice whispers from behind, and you whirl around, spotting an incensed  Madam Pince. She raises a skeletal finger to her thin, pursed lips and hushes you and Draco from across the room.

You wince apologetically at her and turn back to face Draco, finding that his expression has darkened, blue eyes glaring at you like the angry tip of a merciless wand.

“Fine,” he snaps, coldly, “But just so you know, you can’t trust Noah Underwood. He’s a liar.”

“And how am I supposed to trust you?” You hiss, angrily, “All you’ve ever done to me and my best friends is bully us.”

Draco slides his tongue across the cushion of his bottom lip, taking it between his teeth. The action only adds to your anger, and you grind your jaw from losing your temper again.

“You can’t,” he finally says, “But I don’t like to waste my words.”

“Waste your wor-what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

But Draco is gone before you can get an answer, sidling down the aisles and toward the exit. Your eyes follow him as he leaves, wary and offended and outraged and a little intrigued, maybe a little curious. Why had he taken a sudden interest in your life? He’s never cared in the past, why should he care now?

Hermione approaches you, cowering under the weight of five large books. She heaves them onto the bench and irons out her top, straightening her skirt with a sigh.

“What was that about?” She asks, warily.

You work your jaw, asking yourself the exact same question.

* * *

 

 

Harper Shacklebolt is the only person in the Newsroom when you go there later on in the afternoon.

She’s sitting at her desk, leafing through a stack of papers with her brows furrowed in thought, her hazel eyes narrowed in concentration. She doesn’t notice you at first, far too involved in whatever she’s reading, but then you clear your throat and she startles, scrambling to collect the pieces of parchment and drag them into her top drawer.

“(Y/N)!” She gasps, shoving her drawer closed, “What are you doing here? It’s Saturday and the feast will be starting in a couple of hours.”

A page of parchment floats to the ground from her desk and you pick it up, glimpsing at the initials ‘ _O.W_.’ scribbled in barely-readable chicken scratch on the bottom of the page.

Harper snatches the page from your grasp and stuffs it into the draw.

“I wanted to submit my Halloween article in for you,” you smile, trying to set her nerves at ease as she struggles to force the drawer shut. You thrust the two-page article onto the table and Harper picks it up to read it, narrowing her eyes and skimming the page.

“Great,” she snips, dismissively, “Thank you. Now if you could please leave, I have other matters to attend to.”

You nod and wheel around, biting your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning as you stroll down the corridor.

So, Harper has a secret pen pal that she doesn’t want anyone from learning about. Harper has always been ambitious and hard working, throwing herself into the Newsletter and her school work and losing herself in it. Perhaps it has something to do with her father...

“Oh!” You gasp, nearly running into a broad chest. You peer up and immediately feel a prickly heat bleed into your cheeks.

“(Y/N)! Sorry I startled you,” says the melodic voice of Cedric Diggory, “I was just on my way to talk to you!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Cedric slides his teeth across his bottom lip, “I wanted to know if you had a moment.”

You feel your lips stretch on their own accord, curling into what you hope is a soft and natural smile, “Of course! What’s wrong?”

“Well,” Cedric behinds, scratching the back of his neck, “There’s nothing wrong per-say, I was just wondering if you’d like to come for a walk with me...”

You take his hand and interlace your fingers, silently accepting his offer. Cedric grins and the two of you amble down the corridor, heading toward the Courtyard.

“It feels like we haven’t hung out in ages,” You remark, swinging your joined hands together.

“I know,” Cedric sighs, “I’m sorry. I don’t know about you but homework has been intense.”

“I know!” You agree, “Though I’m sure it’s worse for you...being a seventh year and all.”

Cedric shrugs, a sheepish smile creeping across his lips, “Yeah, there is a bit of pressure, but It’s good to have something - or someone - to focus on.” He glances shyly at you, and you feel heat spread across your cheeks.

“Is that what you say to all the girls?” You ask, flashing a simpering smile.

“How could I?” He grins, “The only girl I can possibly focus on is you.”

He winces and you bite your bottom lip, tucking it between your teeth.

“Sorry, that was corny. You have a way of bringing out the cornier side of me...”

“I never said that was a bad thing,” you giggle, “I find it endearing,”

Cedric flushes, and your heart swells, brushing painlessly against the wall of your chest.

You and Cedric lapse into a comfortable silence, your hands locked together in a warm embrace. It gives you time to silently tame your heart, reining it in from where it's floating around haphazardly in your chest.

“So...” Cedric beings, slowly, “I-I want to tell you something...” You glance up at him, curiously studying the way Cedric chews his bottom lip nervously before he continues, “...I-I put my name in the Goblet of Fire.”

You come to a stop, still holding Cedric’s hand. A tight, tense knot of nervous energy tugs inside your chest.

“O-oh,” You stammer, furrowing your brows, “Isn’t-Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Yeah,” Cedric shrugs, “But the champions will be protected. They’re a lot more safeguards this time round...”

You nod, understanding but not even feeling a tiny bit relieved, “Okay.”

A beat of silence passes between the two of you.

“Are you mad?” Cedric asks concern bleeding into the blue of his eyes. You meet his gaze and you untangle your fingers from him, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“Of course not,” You say, giving him what you hope is an encouraging smile, “I am so proud of you, and I always will be...”

Cedric smiles and takes your hands in his, holding them to his lips. He begins to press gentle kisses onto your smooth skin, like he’s trying to memorise the way you feel on his lips, kisses trailing down your palm and onto the inside of your wrist. A strange, unfamiliar feeling of warmth splutters in the pit of your stomach like you’ve drunk too much butterbeer or you’ve inhaled pure sunlight.

“I know,” he murmurs, smiling, “And that’s what I love about you.”

“What you love...?” You breathe, voice gentle on your lips. Cedric beams.

“Yeah,” Cedric’s smile fades as he gazes into your eyes, “What I  _love_.”

The two of you continue down the hallway, your heart humming like the strings of a harp.

* * *

 

 

Cedric walks you to Hagrid’s hut and you peck him on the cheek as he leaves.

You’ll never tire of his reaction; all flushed cheeks and goofy grins that has your heart soaring like a kite in your chest. You’re practically floating when the gigantic, wooden door swings open, revealing a beaming Hagrid.

“(Y/N)! I was jus abou’ ter find yeh,” Hagrid says as Fang bounds out the door and leaps up to lather your face in sloppy kisses. You stagger backwards, giggling as Fang excitedly licks you before Hagrid barks at him to drop.  Hagrid ushers you inside and Fang follows, wagging his tail excitedly, “I - er - wanted ter talk ‘bout summat without the other three knowin’, if yeh don mind.”

“Not at all, Hagrid-“ you start to say but trail off into a stutter as you goggle at Hagrid’s attire. He was wearing that horrible hairy suit that looked like he had just skinned a bear and tried to sew it together, and his thick hair has been tackled and tamed into what looks like two very bushy ponytails. You gawk at him, speechless for a moment, before you clear your throat and compose yourself, “I’ll-I’ll put the kettle on.”

Hagrid beams at you as he leads you into the one-roomed hut. You wander into the kitchen and heave the kettle onto the large stove top, where a large cauldron bubbles and boils away. Hagrid retrieves a large plate of rock cake and places it on the table excitedly. He then stumps around to his bedroom, rattling the plates on his shelves.

“So, what’s the special occasion?” You call from the kitchen. Hagrid stomps back into the kitchen and helps you pour the boiling water into a teapot.

“Jus wanted ter make sure I’m looking me best,” Hagrid says, his cheeks burning beneath his thick, wiry beard, “Its a special occasion!”

You retrieve five teacups and plates and set them on the large coffee table before taking a seat in one of the comfortable armchairs beside the log fire, cocking an eyebrow at him and studying him shrewdly, “Is there anything else you want to add?”

Hagrid lumbers toward the lounge room, brandishing the large teapot, and drops into his oversized armchair.

“Tha’s what I wanted ter talk ter yer abou,” Hagrid mumbles, glancing at his giant feet, “See, I met a - er - someone-“

“Madam Maxime, you mean?” You ask, sipping your tea, though it’s more of a statement than it is a question. Hagrid gapes at you and you snort a bubbly laugh, “You’re not exactly  _discreet_ , Hagrid.”

“Righ’...” Hagrid trails off sheepishly, eyes darting between your grinning face and his feet, “Yes, well...Madam Maxime...She’s a wonderful woman an I-I wan ter impress her...”

“That’s why you’re all dressed up,” you grin, watching as Hagrid’s cheeks glow, “To impress Madam Maxime...”

“An for the Feast!” Hagrid adds, hastily, and you chortle, nipping your bottom lip.

“You don’t have to do much to impress her, Hagrid,” you remark, smiling fondly at your friend, “Just be yourself and talk to her, you’re impressive enough. And if she doesn’t like you, then you know it’s not meant to be.”

Hagrid beard twitches into a broad grin, his beady, black eyes glittering like obsidian, “Well tha’s nice of yer ter say but what do I say ter her?”

You shrug, thinking back to what you and Cedric talked about at the Quidditch World Cup, “Talk about your interests! Find common ground! Ask her what she likes, what Beauxbaton is like, what France is like. People like to talk about themselves so ask her lots of questions.”

Hagrid listens avidly, taking mental notes with keen interest.

“And take her on a date!” You suggest, smiling, “Even if it’s just a walk around Hogwarts, you’re still spending time with her.”

A contemplative silence passes between the two of you, in which Hagrid seems to be absorbing all this new information like a sponge.

“You know,” you begin, slowly, “You’re the second person who has come to me about this topic, the first being Harry.”

Hagrid’s brows nearly graze his hairline, “Oh so he finally told yeh, did he?”

“Told me what?” You ask, brows creasing, “Hagrid, do you know anything about what’s going on between Harry, Ron and Hermione?”

Hagrids mouth flaps open, spluttering on his words, “Erm - well - Er -yeh see -”

_Knock, knock, knock._

Fang leaps to his feet and scampers to the door, barking loudly at the visitors. Hagrid moves to get out of his chair but you beat him to it, springing to your feet.

“I’ll get it,” you say, walking towards the door.

You pull it open and find Ron, Hermione and Harry standing on Hagrid’s doorstep patiently, confirming your suspicions. You greet them with a smile and a happy ‘Hey guys’, stepping aside to let them in.

“I thought we were supposed to meet in the Entrance Hall,” Ron says, patting your head as he passes, “We were waiting for you...”

“Sorry,” you mumble, catching Harry’s eye, “I was...in the area so I thought I’d just head straight to Hagrid’s. Honestly, I thought you’d already be here.”

Ron gives you a quizzical look as Hagrid stomps toward them.

“Hello, yer three,” Hagrid cheers, pouring them cups of tea, “Bout time you visited. Thought you’d forgotten where I live!”

“Sorry, Hagrid,” Hermione apologises, quickly, “We’ve all been really busy-” Hermione falls silent, stopping so abruptly, Harry and Ron nearly crash into her. Ron starts to complain but stops when he sees Hagrid, and you have to stifle a laugh at their identical expressions of shock and surprise, gawking at Hagrid.

“That a new look, Hagrid?” Ron asks, and Hagrid beams.

“You like it? I’m tryin’ summat different,” Hagrid says, gesturing to his hair.

“O-Kay?”

Hagrid ushers the four of you into the comfortable armchairs and you enjoy the rest of the afternoon with Hagrid, ignoring the pang of hurt that twinges in your chest whenever you remember that Hagrid knows more about your situation than you do.

* * *

 

Cedric Diggory’s Name is plucked from the Goblet of Fire, and the entire Hufflepuff table roars with cheers and applause. 

You can’t help but beam with pride as Cedric’s gaze catches yours from across the rows of tables and he grins this dazzlingly beautiful grin, soft lips pulling back to reveal a perfectly straight row of gleaming white teeth, and you know in that moment that this is his special smile, one he keeps  _just for you._

The uproar continues, stretching, echoing across the Great Hall, their joy and excitement so contagious that you, too, leap to your feet and cheer alongside the Hufflepuffs. When the applause dies down, Dumbledore begins to speak again, smiling broadly as the hum of excitement buzzed in the air, like bumblebees on a spring day...

“Well, that was exciting,” you murmur in an undertone to Harry. You spot Ron’s slightly disgruntled expression and jut your chin at him, “Whats wrong with Ron?” 

“I think Ron is still in disbelief that Cedric is Hogwarts Champion...” Harry mutters back. 

“Why? Because he thinks Hufflepuffs are all dumb because they’re the only people who have the courage to value  _kindness_ over everything else?” 

“Nah, He’s still bitter over Cedric catching the snitch last year...”

You roll your eyes at that, shaking your head, “Honestly, he can be so childish sometimes. Are you still ‘bitter’ about last year?” 

Harry shrugs, “Not really. But I...” Harry pauses, falls silent. You narrow your eyes on him. 

“What are–?” you begin to ask, but you stop when you suddenly see the Goblet of Fire flare. 

Sitting on the jewelled box like Baal perched on a throne, The Goblet bursts to life, a long, red tongue of fire shooting from the centre, offering up from its fiery depths a fourth champion worthy of the tournament.

Dumbledore gapes for a long moment, shocked. He approaches it warily, pulls away the piece of paper, and  _stares_.

A stunned silence suspends in the air, heavy with tension and seemingly unanswerable questions. No one really knows what to say or do except stare at Dumbledore and hope that there is some sort of explanation for what has just happened-

Dumbledore finally reads out the fourth champion, and an invisible hook yanks your heart up into your throat.

“ _Harry Potter._ ”

This isn’t going to end well.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo I didn’t really expect this to be ready so soon??? I was just like writing and then I was like “oh, it’s done!” Anyway, here you go my friends. I missed writing Cedric in this but he kind of didn’t fit into the chapter so i left him out. But I promise something special is coming soon with him ❤️poor Draco, i felt really bad for him in this chapter but this kind of had to happen… ♡ thanks again to all your warm words of encouragement, i am not worthy :)

 

* * *

It’s oppressively, unbearably quiet in the Gryffindor Common room this late at night.

You sit crossed-legged on a large couch, Noah’s book on Ancient Symbols stretched across your legs, your fingers skimming the pages and your eyes staring at strings and strings of words but not really taking anything in because Harry is running late–

Harry is running  _late_.  

He had promised before he left that he’d be back from meeting Hagrid at “around ten to one”, just before his meeting with Sirius. You glance down at your watch.

_12:53am_

_Sirius is going to be here soon._

You bite your lip, chewing nervously. A tight, needle-point prickle stitches itself across the top of your scalp, running down your spine, biting into your vertebrae. You should be used to it by now, it’s all you’ve been able to register over the past few weeks, but the invasive feeling of pure dread is something you can’t just ignore.

The past few weeks have been truly horrendous. There has been a significant increase in the amount of school work that the Professors have been straddling onto everyone’s shoulders. For reasons beyond your comprehension, the professors have found it absolutely necessary to prepare you for the pressure that will no doubt be mounted onto you all when OWLS swing around…

Harper hasn’t been helpful, either. Her constant demands to turn in more and more articles each week has only added to your stress.

“You’re the best writer the Howler has ever had, (Y/N)!” Harper had said when she had asked you to write two extra articles, “You’re the figurative glue that holds this newsletter together!”

To make matters worse, Harry and Ron haven’t been talking to one another, which makes it increasingly difficult to balance your time between the two of them. Ron, who is used to being shunted into the shadows and has grown sick of living there, is convinced without reason that Harry put his name in the Goblet of Fire. And while you understand Ron’s point of view, fighting with Harry isn’t going to fix things.

At the same time, Harry is far too stubborn to try and sympathise with Ron. He can’t see a reason why Ron would want the spotlight and the attention that constantly follows him around like an army of buzzing flies performing emergency drills in mid-air. Especially when the attention Harry is receiving now is…distasteful.

Since Rita Skeeter’s horrid article made it’s rounds around the school, Harry has been the subject of disdain and ridicule. The article has been read and quoted to Harry, mocking him, and even with your best efforts to clear his name, everyone seems to be searching for excuses to pin a target to his back and turn him into a beacon of hateful remarks and spiteful insults.

The entire ordeal has been…exhausting.

You blink, chest heavy. You feel like your friends drifting apart from each other, using all your little secrets as building blocks to construct sky-high barriers between each other.

Adding to your anxiety is that photo burning a hole through your pockets. It feels a hundred times heavier the more time passes. You pull it out and examine it, flattening it over the top of Noah’s book.

The more you try to understand it, the more perplexing it becomes. You’re starting to think that it really  _is_  a prank; you haven’t received anything since, and your efforts to discover the truth are leading you down roads you don’t recognise. Even with Noah helping, it seems like this predicament was designed to confuse you, like a paradox spiralling in on itself.

“I don’t think it’s a threat,” Noah had murmured one Sunday afternoon, when you had met with him and Hermione in the Howler’s study room, “If it was, you’d know it.”

“Well, what does it mean?” you asked. Noah had turned to you, eying you with the sort of intensity that made your skin crawl and your spine freeze.

“Don’t you get it?” he had finally asked, though it had been rhetorical, “It’s a warning to never let your guard down.  _A mouse does not trust a hungry snake_ because if it did if it let it’s guard down. It would get  _eaten_.”

“Why would someone feel the need to warn (Y/N)?” Hermione had piped up, one hand resting on her hip, “And are they saying not to trust Cedric? What has he got to do with anything of this?”

Noah had shrugged at that, and the questions Hermione had posed have been left unanswered.

You close your eyes and exhale a heavy sigh, feeling the glow of warmth emanating from the log fire and allowing it to soak into your skin.

You wish your mother were alive right now. She was always full of patience and wisdom, and she would have been able to guide you, nurture you in that way that only mothers can. The warmth of the fire helps you visualise her embraces that made you feel safe, guarded against the world and its atrocities-

Your eyes snap open, a silent gasp escaping your lips. Goosebumps creep across your skin, an imaginary gust of icy wind breathing down your spine.  

Someone is watching you.

You spring to your feet, eyes scanning the shadows as you wield your wand like a sword. Most of the room is illuminated by the crackling log fire that throws amber light on the darkest corners of the room. Still, long shadows project themselves like sharp, black blades, slicing the room into pieces of light and dark.

You’re about to call out when you’re interrupted by the portrait door, which flies open, yanking you out of your thoughts. The sound of stumbling footsteps echoes through the common room, and suddenly, Harry is standing before you, Invisibility cloak hanging from his trembling grip.

The feeling of paranoia vanishes, the stranger’s eyes disappearing into the night.

“Dragons!” Harry hisses, collapsing beside you, “We have to fight  _Dragons_!”

Your paranoia dissipates, retreating to the back of your head as your heart sinks, swallowed by the pit of anxiety deep inside your stomach.

“O-Oh,” you stammer, playing nervously with a bead on your bracelet, “Oh,  _shit_.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead, “It’s like they  _want_ me to make a fool of myself, which will just prove everyone right…”

You rest a hand on Harry’s shoulder, massaging into the tense muscles knotted together, “You’re not going to make a fool of yourself, Harry. Sirius is going to help.”

“I don’t see how he can! We don’t even know where he is…”

“Maybe he will give you some suggestions on how to defeat the – the dragon?” You suggest, offering him an encouraging smile, “If Sirius can outwit Dementors, he can at least give you a few hints on how to defeat a dragon!”

“We don’t have to defeat it,” Harry corrects, tersely, “According to Charlie, we just have to get past it…”

“Well, that’s not so bad!” You say in a gentle undertone, “It’s a lot easier than trying to kill it!”

Harry sighs again, forcefully pushing the air out from his lungs.  You hook your arm through his and rest your head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of fresh pine and crisp air and tasting it on the tip of your tongue. You interlace your fingers with his and give his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze and Harry relaxes against you. You stay like that for a long moment, inhaling each other in like plumes of smoke, allowing the silence to wrap around you like a shroud and fill in the gaps between your heart.

It’s never been fair for Harry. He’s been thrust into a situation he never wanted to be in and he’s being scolded and punished for it. Yet Harry still has the courage to be kind. You squeeze his hand again, a little tighter, rubbing your thumb over his and sensing the way his pulse spikes.

After several moments of measured silence, Harry decides to pull away, staring at you with wide, green eyes.

“(Y/N),” he mumbles, so softly you barely hear it, and he raises a hand to your face, ghosting his fingers over your cheeks and spreading warmth through your body like sunlight.

“What is it, Harry?” You whisper, intrigued and a little nervous.

He hesitates, biting back on unspoken words, and just as he opens his mouth to speak, he glances at the fire and jumps.

Sirius Black’s head is resting in a nest of flames, like a small dragon egg.

“Oh,” you gasp, wrenching yourself away from Harry. Warmth creeps up the length of your neck, tingling in your cheeks.

A teasing grin plays on the corners of Sirius’ lips as he regards you, eyes moving between you and Harry.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Sirius says, a slight arch in his brow.

“I’ll–er–I’ll go…” you stammer, words fumbling on your lips as you avert your gaze.

“No!” Harry blurts, gripping your wrist desperately, “I–I mean…please stay…”

You glance at Sirius. His lips quirk, grin curling into a knowing smirk.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Sirius says, his tone reassuring, even a little bit insistent. You and Harry glance at each other before scrambling toward the fire place, approaching Sirius’ head with identical smiles.

“How are you?” Harry mumbles, concern creeping into his eyes. Sirius gives a reassuring smile.

“I’m fine. Buckbeak and I have been on quite the adventure. Never mind me, how are you?  _Both_  of you?”

You fall silent as Harry begins to answer, his thoughts and feelings spilling out of him like blood from an open wound. As Harry pours his heart out to Sirius, you take a moment to study his face, noticing how different he looks.

You’re beginning to appreciate just how handsome he truly is; his thick, black hair neatly chopped and his chiseled, sun-bronzed face lacking the pasty gauntness that years in Azkaban had given him. He looks younger, fresher, fuller and incredibly handsome. The only feature that looks out of place is his eyes, haunted by melancholic ghosts and years of unspeakable trauma. Perhaps those angry skeletons thrashing around in Sirius’ closet would eventually turn to dust. Or perhaps they will remain, lurking in the shadows. Either way, he had your loyal support and Harry’s undying affection to help him through it.

In saying that, the first time you had met him, you had never thought you would ever support him.  Your initial first impression of him was that he was a raving lunatic, a walking corpse that had emerged from his grave like a revenant from Peter Pettigrew’s past. He had certainly seemed that way; unhinged and aggressive and positively seething with revenge. When he had realized who you were, his anger had spiked, for it was  _your_  father who had defamed him, convinced the public that he was a deranged, sociopathic murderer who had slaughtered innocent people and had shed blood in the name of Voldemort.

As soon as Pettigrew was apprehended, though, Sirius’ view of you had changed. He had even opened up about his own family issues.

“Children shouldn’t be held accountable for the mistakes of their parents,” he had said, sagely, clapping a gentle, skeletal hand on your shoulder, “I’ve always believed that even when  _I_  was a child myself.”

Remus had made a witty comment about how much of a terror Sirius had been, and the moment had passed, but his words had stayed with you ever since. Perhaps that was something Luke needed to hear…

A beat of silence passes between the three of you, in which you realise that Harry’s finished talking.

“Dragons…” Sirius murmurs, thoughtfully. Harry gives a desperate nod, “Okay, we can work with that, but it’s not dragons you should be worried about, Harry. It’s Karkaroff.”

“Karkaroff?” Harry echoes in confusion, “You mean, Durmstrang’s headmaster?”

Sirius nods, “He used to be a Death Eater. Moody locked him up in Azkaban after Voldemort disappeared, but the bastard got released. He struck a deal with the Ministry and snitched on his Death Eater buddies and other allies of Voldemort and now they all want his head on a plate.”

“Is that why Durmstrang is so…involved in the Dark Arts?” You ask, and Sirius answers your question with a nod.

“I’d be wary of the Durmstrang champion if I were you, Harry,” Sirius warns, seriously, “I would not be surprised if he tried to use any dark magic on you. Keep your guard up.” 

You blink at Sirius, nerves sparking like the frayed edges of crackling electrical wires. This is becoming bigger and darker than anything you ever expected. You bite your lip and frown pensively, swallowing back the lump of anxiety slowly crawling up your throat.  

“Okay,” You say, nervously, glancing uneasily at Harry, “So are you saying that Karkaroff put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire?”

“If he did, he’s a really good actor,” Harry murmurs, darkly, “He seemed furious about it. I was expecting him to explode…”

“Well he managed to convince the Ministry that he had seen the errors of his ways and all that garbage,” Sirius mutters, bitterly, “So if he was capable of that then we know for certain that he can put on a show.”

You sit back on your haunches, frowning as Sirius tells you about the Death Eaters, Voldemort, Bertha Jonkins and Karkaroff’s hidden agenda, information slotting together like tiny pieces in an impossibly huge jigsaw, creating an image you’re not sure you want to see…

“So,” you begin, slowly, nervously, fingers fumbling around your bracelet, “You’re saying that someone - presumably Karkaroff - has rejoined the Death Eaters and is trying to kill Harry under You-Know-Who’s orders?”

“I don’t know…” sighs Sirius, in a slow and gentle tone, “I mean, Karkaroff may have turned in all his Death Eater pals but that was just for self-preservation. I don’t think he has it in him to return to Voldemort. All I know for certain is that whoever put your name into the Goblet did it for a reason and that the Tournament may act as a cover to - er – ”

“- Make an attack on Harry look like an accident,” you finish, fingers sliding around a bead to your bracelet. The tips of your fingers feel cold like you’ve dipped them in icy water. You think about reaching out to take Harry’s hand, but ultimately decide against it.  

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone has tried to kill me,” Harry grumbles, sourly, “Besides, they wouldn’t have to do much. They just have to sit back and watch as dragons burn my face off.”

A flicker of a smile flits across Sirius’ lips, and he suddenly resembles the handsome teenager that stood beside his best friends in their wedding photo, “Harry, you’ve faced bigger, scarier things than dragons. In fact, once you learn this simple spell, you’ll find that Dragons aren’t so bad after all…”

As Sirius begins to explain, you feel a flutter of unease stir inside your stomach. Sure, Harry has faced bigger and scarier things, but at the end of the day, it’s not really about dragons or whatever challenge this Tournament will throw at its champions. It’s about the ulterior motives that this stranger has against Harry and their end goal. And though you’re sure you all can get to the bottom of this, an uncomfortable mixture of nerves and stress begins to bubble frantically inside of you, like a potion gone wrong, as you consider the possibility that this all has to do with the photo of you and Cedric and the symbol on the back of it.

Suddenly, the tips of your ears prick, straining, and you pick up on footsteps sliding down the stairs from the boy’s dormitory.

“Someone is coming!” You hiss, clambering to your feet, “Quick! I’ll see who it is–”

“There’s no time,” Harry mutters, turning to Sirius, “Go! Before you get caught.”

A faint pop echoes from behind you as you barrel toward your seat, propping your book in your lap and trying to look inconspicuous. As you lead through the pages of your book, a black feather suddenly falls out from between two pages, falling to the floor. You move to pick it up but you spot Ron Weasley emerging from the spiral staircase and you pause.

The air suddenly shifts around you, crackling with the same tension that hisses in the air before an electrical storm. Harry glares at Ron.  

Ron’s eyes dart between the two of you suspiciously, “What are you two doing in here at this time of night?”

“Nothing,” you blurt, hurriedly, “Harry and I were just…we both couldn’t sleep so…”

“What’s that got to do with you?” Harry snarls, coldly, a dark shadow crossing over his expression, “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I just wondered where you had got to, S’all,” Ron says, then shrugs impassively, “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. You’re with (Y/N) so you can finally sort whatever is going on between you out, I’m going to back bed…”

 _Sort_ what  _out?_

“Just thought you’d come nosing around, did you?” Harry shouts you can feel the heat of his rage rolling off him like plumes of smoke, a warning, an angry siren blaring in your ears, “Like you and Hermione have done all summer!”

“Oh, sorry,” Ron snaps, mockingly, making no effort to sound genuinely apologetic, “I’ll let you get back to practising your next interview in peace, yeah?”

“Would you two  _shut_  it!?” you hiss, sternly, trying to remain calm and composed, “You’re going to wake everyone up-!”

Something soars through the air and hits Ron hard on his head, bouncing off and clattering on the ground. You realise that Harry had hurled a  _POTTER REALLY STINKS_ badge at Ron as hard as he could, and it had hit with perfect aim, directly on Ron’s forehead. The badge gleams in the low light, winking at you from the floor.

“There you go, something for you to wear on Tuesday!” Harry says, his tone icy and vitriolic, “If you’re lucky, you might get a scar to match mine. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Well, you can have it!”

Harry storms past Ron and retreats up the stairs, leaving you alone in the common room with Ron. Flushed red with anger and embarrassment, Ron marches over and drops into the seat next to you, brewing silently at the other end. You both sit in an uneasy silence, allowing it to suffocate any possible response you can come up with.

“Do you really believe him?” Ron suddenly asks, shattering the tension and filling the silence.

“What?”

“Do you – do you really believe that he didn’t put his name in the Goblet,” Ron explains, turning his gaze from the flickering fire to you, watching you carefully.

“I don’t believe. I  _know_  he didn’t, Ron,” you say, snapping your book closed and turning to face Ron.  

“How can you be so sure?”  

“Because I  _trust_  Harry, and if he said he didn’t do it, he didn’t do it. End of story. Besides, why would he lie?”

“Because…” Ron sighs, rubbing his forehead “I don’t know…”

“You know, I think this fight you have going on with Harry is absolutely ridiculous,” you say, bluntly, perhaps a little harshly, “We’ve been through so much and this is what you’re fighting about? It’s dumb and illogical. I mean, think about it: if Fred and George couldn’t sneak their way into it, how could Harry?” Ron’s mouth twists into a frown, though his gaze flickers, considering your questions, “Just…think about it.”

Rising from your seat, you stalk toward the stairs and scale the stairs briskly, leaving Ron alone with his thoughts.

* * *

***

There’s something in your hair.

You feel it rolling down your scalp and your hands fly from your book to your head, fingers raking through your hair to find whatever has decided to claim it as a nest.

“What is it, (Y/N)?” Hermione asks curiously, as your fingers find something round and carefully pull it from your hair.

You hold it out in front of you and study it in the autumn sunlight that streams through the branches of the large oak tree you’re currently sitting under. It’s a–

It’s a fucking  _jellybean_.

You narrow your eyes on Luke, who grins deviously, and roll your eyes, noticing the jellybeans spilt across his books.

“Finally, I have your attention,” he says, smirking.

“You’ve been throwing jellybeans in my hair?” You snap, angrily.

“Well you weren’t listening to me,” Luke shrugs, like it’s the most obscenely obvious course of action he could take, “So I made up a story about a horrific cult murder I supposedly witnessed with all the gory details and my continuous struggle with morality but, alas, you  _still_  weren’t listening to me so, naturally, I resorted to throwing jelly beans in your hair.”

Luke pauses, pops the jellybean he was about to toss at you into his mouth and cringes, spitting it out into the grass, “Gross! I got broom polish…”

“Ha,” You bleat a gleeful laugh, “Serves you right!”

Luke pokes his tongue out at you playfully and you toss a piece of bark at him, hitting him in the face. Luke gags, coughing into his palm as he tries to smear the taste of dirt and bark from his mouth and Hermione snorts, clapping a hand over her grin.

“I’ve got to say, I was a bit disappointed that neither of you heard my story,” Luke says, his amused grin betraying his disappointment, “I was very particular with the details. I  _did_ manage to scare the shit out of some first years, though. At least  _they_  were listening to me…though pretty sure I confirmed their suspicions about  _all_ Slytherins being evil and shit.”

“Well, at least they won’t bother you now,” you chortle, grinning, “they might think you’ll sacrifice them to Satan or something.”

“What makes you think that I wouldn’t?” Luke teases, arching a brow.

“I always knew you were the evil one in our family.”

“Only because I’m cool enough to pull it off.”

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself now, Lukey boy. I know you still sleep with a teddy.”

“It’s a toy unicorn, actually,” Luke corrects, smirking, “and am I supposed to be ashamed of that?”

“I think you would be if I told Cho Chang…”

Luke’s mouth falls open, his cheeks stained with a light shade of pink, “You wouldn’t dare…”

“What do you think, Hermione? Should I tell Cho about the cult murder Luke witnessed or his teddy?”

“Unicorn!” Luke says, defensively,

You roll your eyes, “His pet unicorn, then,  _Merlin_ …”

Hermione pretends to consider this, mockingly frowning in thought, “I’m pretty sure Luke is embarrassing enough on his own so there’s nothing more you can add to make it worse for him…”

Luke scoffs and pokes Hermione playfully in the ribs. Laughter bursts from Hermione’s lips, wavering in the air around you, and Luke cocks his head, grinning.

“Is the Great Hermione Granger  _ticklish_?” He asks, and Hermiones smile fades.

“No… Luke…don’t you  _dare_ …”

Luke throws his hands on either side of Hermione, tickling her ribs and launching Hermione into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“S-stop! Lu-ke I swear to Me-rlin!”

You chortle at your brother and your best friend, watching them fondly and enjoying the sound of their laughter. In the distance, you spot Noah hurrying past, shouldering past people hastily.

You climb to your feet and swipe the book you had burrowed off Noah from the grass, calling out to him as he passes.

“Noah!” You call, following him, “Wait up! I have your book.”

Noah glances at you and, oddly, picks up speed, rushing past the loitering groups of people crowding the gardens. He breaks into a light jog and you copy him, mumbling soft apologies to other students as you accidentally bump into them in your haste to catch up with Noah.

“Miss (Y/N)!” Someone calls your name from behind but you ignore them, your attention now narrowing on Noah’s retreating form.

You start advancing on him, drawing closer and closer as he struggles to stay ahead of you, your arm stretching out in front of you as you move to reach his wrist-

Someone wraps a strong hand around your own wrist and yanks you back. You gasp and stumble backwards, a flare of hot irritation hissing inside your chest as you wheel around to face the stupid  _idiot_ -

“Oh,” you murmur, your glare sharpening.

“Miss (Y/N),” Rita Skeeter pants, coldly, her face flushed from exertion, “You sure are a hard little minx to catch.”

“Rita, Harry really isn’t in the mood –”

“I’m not actually looking for Harry,” Rita interrupts, speaking over you, “I’m here to talk to  _you_.”

You frown at her in confusion, eyes sweeping over her suspiciously, “I have no comment to make…”

“Not even about your boyfriend?” Rita asks, brow raised. Her lips quirk into a simpering smile at your surprised expression, “There isn’t much I don’t know around these parts, (Y/N). You should know, your father’s the same.”

“Speaking of which, I should tell him how you’re breaking every law in journalism with the little stints you’re pulling in your articles,” you snarl. Rita’s smirk falters at its edges.

“What I wrote was  _facts_ , Miss Arden.”

“What you wrote was  _gossip_ ,” you snap, a sense of crooked delight bubbling inside of you, “You didn’t check your facts properly, otherwise you’d know that Hermione and Harry are  _not_  in love and you would also know that Harry does  _not_  use his dead parents as an excuse for  _anything_.”

Rita scoffs as she approaches you, her brow arching sharply, “I write what my readers want to hear. Besides, I never actually  _lied_ , I suggested, and if you knew one thing about Journalism–”

“I don’t have to,” you remark, coldly, “My father is  _your_  boss, after all, and you never know…something might  _accidentally_ slip.”

Rita barks a mirthless laugh, “Are you  _threatening_  me, Miss Arden?”

“Oh, you’d know if I was threatening you,” you snarl, venomously.

Rita steps forward, wearing a malicious smirk that is so sharp, you can almost slice yourself on its edges, “So…the prettiest girl at Hogwarts has a dark side…I’m impressed.”  

“I don’t care if you’re impressed,” you remark, coolly, turning away from her “Now if you’ll excuse me–”

“–Does Harry know?”

You freeze midstep, feeling Rita’s scheming smirk and glinting eyes trained on you. Your nails dig into your palms, heart pounding.  _Please, God, don’t let her know about that stupid_ fucking _photo…_

“Does Harry know what?”

Rita sidles toward you, her quill floating beside her, “Does Harry know about you and Cedric Diggory?”

Relief blooms inside you like weeds growing through the cracks in your ribcage. Rita smirks predatorily, mistaking your relief with shock, “Like I said, there’s not much I  _don’t_  know around here…”

“To answer your question…no,” you mumble, tucking your hair behind your ear, “But he will, as well as everyone else.”

“Yes,” Rita gives a cat-like smirk, all sharp, gleaming teeth and thin lips, “Yes, they will. Good day, Miss Arden, I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

Rita whirls around and saunters away, leaving you feeling both frustrated and guilty. Journalists like Rita Skeeter make you lose your faith in Journalism, though you’ve got to give it to her; she’s ruthlessly determined. 

Suddenly remembering what you were doing in the first place, you spin around and pace across the grounds, heading toward the castle. You spot Noah rounding the corner of Greenhouse Three and you break into a jog, trying to keep up with him…

“Noah!” you call, approaching the Greenhouses, picking up speed and rounding the corner and–

You come to a stop when you realize that the person lurking behind the Greenhouses is the last person you want to see.

“He’s gone, Arden,” says Draco Malfoy, cheeks pink and hair dishevelled. It looks as though he had tried to catch up with Noah, too.

“But–But I  _saw_  him…”

“I know,” Draco murmurs, bitterly, “I know. I don’t know  _how_ …”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, animosity rising inside of you, “Yes, you do. Because  _you_  scared him away!”

“I did  _not_!” Draco snaps, coldly, “And even if I did, he can’t just-just –  _vanish_  –unless he can apparated of course…”

“Oh my God,” you snip, angrily, “You can’t  _apparate_  on school grounds! Hermione really  _is_  the only person who has read  _Hogwarts: A History_!”

Draco rakes a hand through his hair, tugging on the roots in frustration, “Well he’s figured out a way to because I can’t–”

Draco stops abruptly, gaze drifting to something behind you. You follow his gaze, spotting a book bag shoved behind a pot plant. Draco stalks toward it and rips it away from the plant.

Distantly, a crow’s warbling call echoes across the Greenhouses, rippling in the air, as though sending a warning. 

“This is Underwoods!” Draco says, “He stashed his book bag behind and fled!”

You roll your eyes at Draco, grinding your jaw, “Yeah, because  _someone_  was chasing him around like a lunatic.”

“You were too!” Draco accuses, bitterly.

“I wanted to give his book back!” you grit through a clenched jaw, shaking Noah’s book in front of him, scowling darkly.

Draco sneers and wrenches open Noah’s book bag, peering into it.

“What are you doing?!” you snap, shrilly, “You can’t just go through someone else’s stuff!”

“I can if said person is a  _liar_!” Draco says, poking one hand into his bag, “And you won’t believe–”

Before Draco can finish, a large crow swoops down from out of nowhere and attacks Draco. You gasp and stagger backwards, watching slack-jawed as Draco drops the bag, his arms flailing wildly as the crow squawks and caws, clawing his hair and pecking his head.

“You–stupid–disgusting–waste of a bird–Ah!”

You swallow and retrieve your wand, snatching it out of your pocket and stretching it toward the gloomy, grey clouds gathering around you. You figure a harmless charm will do the trick, after all, you don’t want to hurt the bird, just scare it.

“ _Vermillious_!” you shout, and a burst of red erupts from the tip of your wand, soaring into the sky.

The crow flies backwards with a sharp cry, startled by the loud bang that reverberates in the still air, and retreats, flapping its large wings as it disappears into the distance. Black feathers float in the air, drifting to the damp grass like a mocking reminder.

“You should have  _killed_  it!” Draco seethes, kicking Noah’s bag away from him, “Setting his little pet on me like that! Well,  _my father_  is going to hear about this and will absolutely destroy that mudb–”

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you,” warns a familiar voice, and you glance behind you, spotting Luke striding toward you, Hermione in tow.

“Good, someone who actually knows what they’re doing! Noah Underwood’s bird just attacked me–”

“Maybe it thought you were a ferret?” Luke suggests, arching a sharp brow. You swallow the laughter bubbling up your throat, stifling a grin as you watch Draco’s mouth flap open. Luke continues, suddenly very serious.  

“Here’s what I think: You and my sister found Noah’s bag and decided to dig around for something…valuable. Recognizing it’s owner’s bag, the defensive r _aven_  attacked you until my sister saved your arse. Since theft is not tolerated on school grounds, I am tempted to subtract points, however, I’d say you’ve already learned your lesson.”

Draco flushes, eyes darting between the two of you, “(Y/N) was just as responsible for this as I am!”

You glower at Draco, anger boiling in your blood like venom, mouth opening to bark at him, but Luke raises a hand to stop you. 

“Yes, well, I’ll have to deal with her later,” he glances at you and shoots you a wink when Draco isn’t looking.

“What is going  _on_  here?” Professor McGonagall says as she stomps toward you, arms folded across her chest, “Who cast the  _Vermillious_  charm?”

“Everything is under control here, Professor McGonagall,” Luke reassures, calmly, his tone professional as though he were dealing with a potential business client, “Mr Malfoy was just on his way to the Hospital Wing. He was…er…attacked by a raven.”

Professor McGonagall’s eyes narrow on Draco, surveying him shrewdly, “Well hurry on now, Mr Malfoy, no need to loiter around.”

Draco’s eyes glint angrily before he gulps and storms off, fists clenched at his sides. Luke turns to Professor McGonagall and flashes a gracious smile.

“Thank you for coming, Professor McGonagall,” he says, charmingly, “And might I add that you look simply divine in your new robes…”

You and Hermione catch each other’s eyes and both of you stifle a grin. Professor McGonagall arches a sharp brow at him, “I expect the usual report on my desk tomorrow morning.”

Luke smiles and nods, watching as Professor McGonagall stalks away. When she’s gone, you turn to Luke, shoving him hard.

“You are so bloody ridiculous. ‘Might I add that you look simply  _divine_  in your new robes…’  _barf_. You’re just as bad as Hermione!”

Hermione shrugs, “She  _is_  brilliant…”  

Luke steps toward you, grinning wolfishly, “If Professor McGonagall were a few years younger…”

You and Hermione exchange a grimace and you punch him again, earning a yelp of surprise.

“I can’t believe you’d do that to one of your own,” You chortle, shaking your head

“Eh, it’s people like Malfoy that give us Slytherin a bad name,” Luke shrugs, “We’re either already dead inside or we want to be and we use sarcasm to cover it up.”

Luke ruffles your hair as you walk back toward the castle, laughter filling the air around you, the hidden contents of Noah’s book bag vanishing from your mind.


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahh okay this week is going to be super busy for me!! I have two more chapters that I want to release before Christmas, and two more Young gods chapters as well!! It’s going to be a challenge, but I think I can make it. I’m not actually all that happy with this chapter, but it’s important so it’ll have to do. Anyway, enjoy <3

 

On the morning of the first task, you hardly sleep a wink.

You had watched as the room had gone from complete darkness to those misty, almost whimsical shades of blues and greys without really appreciating it. Instead, you had laid awake in bed, marinating in your own thoughts and anxiety.

In a few hours, your best friend and your sort of boyfriend would be fighting a dragon, and the kind of dread that grows from that is like a fungus spreading across your scalp; it’s uncomfortable, nauseating and terrifying all at once.

The gravity of this entire ordeal has never felt heavier as you lie on your back, staring up at the ceiling, sliding the beads on your bracelet round and round in tight, little circles. You feel like your stomach is climbing its way up your throat, a greasy wave of nausea puttering around at the back of your mouth as you pray to any god that’s listening for Harry’s protection.

Sirius’ words come back to you, whispering in your ear, haunting you as you lay on your back gripping the bed sheets;  _All I know for certain is that whoever put your name into the Goblet did it for a reason…_

You blink, scratching hastily at your wrist. If someone really, truly was going to attack Harry during the Tournament, you would have to do everything in your power to stop them, to ensure Harry was safe, to protect, not only Harry, but those around him like Hermione and Ron and Cedric, even Fleur and Victor, they were all at risk here...

Nightshade crawls up your bed and nestled herself under your arm in a comforting sort of way, purring loudly. You absentmindedly scratch her head, staring blankly at the ceiling as you try to calm your racing thoughts.

It’s a task that is easier said than done in your experience.

Beside you, you hear a soft sigh issue from Hermione’s bed. You wonder, vaguely, if she’s had difficulties sleeping, too. Perhaps she was losing sleep agonising over this, too, turning restlessly in her bed as the minutes rolled by. 

You both were invested in this as much as Harry and Cedric were; both of you had spent hours helping Harry with his Summoning Charm and - without anyone knowing of course - you had offered to help Cedric with his task. Cedric, being the noble and fair hearted boy that he is, refused to drag you into something that could get you into trouble, but you made sure the offer would still stand, regardless.

Peering through a crack in your curtains, you notice that the curtains surrounding Hermione are still drawn. Gently prodding Nightshade on her tummy, you peel yourself away from your bed and tip toe across to hers, tugging gently on the curtain.

“Hermione?” You whisper, softly, so as to not wake the sleeping forms of your dorm mates, “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” Hermione replies, gently, “Yes I’m — I’m awake.”

You bite down on your bottom lip and carefully open the curtains, poking your head in through the gap.

“Can I...can I come in?” You murmur, sheepishly. Hermione smiles benignly and pats the side of her bed. You crawl in beside her and she pulls you into a warm embrace.

“Worried about Cedric and Harry?” She asks, though it’s more of a statement than a question.

You nod and she squeezes you a little tighter, comforting you without using words, “Aren’t you?”

Hermione pauses, hesitating. You crane your neck to peer up at her and she bites down on her bottom lip. When she speaks, her voice is so soft, it’s almost like a breath of fresh air, “No, I’m not worried...I’m terrified.”

The two of you lay in silence, holding each other close and watching as the light in the room begins to change, getting thicker and warmer, bathing the room in bright, golden light. It’s a stark contrast to the cold dread that drips down your spine like stalactites, but the warmth blossoming between you and Hermione as you lay silently in her arms is enough to distract you from your own thoughts.

Right now, it’s all you need to drift off into a light doze, allowing yourself to relax in your best friends arms for a fleeting moment. 

 

* * *

 

When you wake up again, it’s 8am and the spot beside you has grown cold.

You blink lazily; your eyelids feel like sandpaper grazing against your eyeballs. Your body yearns for more sleep, but you know you can’t...not yet...not until the first task is over...

Stifling a yawn behind your fist, you peel yourself away from Hermione’s bed and dress into your school uniform rather sluggishly. After ensuring that you look somewhat presentable, you manage to drag yourself away from your room, down the stairs and out of the common room, mindlessly greeting your friends as they pass. Neville had even tried to strike up a conversation, but you weren’t in the right frame of mind to carry it.

It’s almost like you’re about to throw yourself at a fire-breathing dragon instead of Harry and Cedric; it certainly feels that way. Your stomach feels like it’s been transfigured into a lump of cold steel as you walk toward the Great Hall, not even caring where you’re heading. The fear is persistent and determined to tear the last shreds of your hope and optimism from your rib cage like some sort of hungry, wild beast.

You’re so caught up in your thoughts, you don’t even realise you’ve arrived at the Great Hall until you’re standing in front of Harry and Hermione.

“(Y/N)?” Harry says, softly, your name on his lips drawing you out of yourself.

You blink once, twice, thrice, noting the similar expression Hermione and Harry are wearing. They stare at you carefully, as though they’re afraid you might shatter before their eyes.

_Does everyone really think I’m just pretty and emotional?_

Irritation bites into you but you let it slide, biting down on the inside of your cheek and feeling the flesh swell in response as you drop into the spot next to Harry.

“How did you sleep?” You ask Harry, pushing your fears aside as you stare into his nervous, green eyes.

“Horribly,” Harry grumbles, playing idly with his food, “But at least I have a plan. Let’s hope it works.”

“I’m sure it will, Harry,” Hermione coos, softly.

“You were loads better at the summoning charm last night,” you piece together a gentle smile you hope looks reassuring.

“About that...” Harry begins, awkwardly, “Uh - thanks for helping.”

“Well, of course,” Hermione snips as though it were the most obvious fact in the world, “We’re your best friends, Harry. We’re here for you!”

You reach under the table and cover his hand with yours, thumbs tracing the smooth hollows between his knuckles. Harry stiffens for a brief, fleeting moment, hesitating before he relaxes into your touch like water flowing around a river stone. He raises his troubled gaze from his plate to your eyes, and for the first time, you see genuine fear creeping into them. 

At that moment, all the veiled secrecy that has been welling between the two of you doesn’t matter. Harry could have all the secrets he wants but that will never change how you feel about him. He’s your best friend, now and always, and you will do anything to help him, protect him, support him.

“Always,” you breathe, so gently you’re not sure if he’s heard you. Harry dispels your doubts with a half-hearted smile. He intertwines your fingers.

They stay interlocked for some time, hidden beneath the table like a shared secret and a promise of comfort, breaking apart only after breakfast concludes and you’re both forced to untangle your fingers and start toward your first class. On your way to History of Magic, you spot Cedric and his group of friends chatting excitedly as they head toward their own class, and you excuse yourself from Harry and Hermione, rushing toward Cedric.

“Cedric,” you call, and he spins around at the sound of his name, a dazzling smile filling his lips when he spots you.

“(Y/N)” he beams as you approach him, eyes shimmering like morning stars.

“Hey, (Y/N)!” Troy Hammond greets, cheerily. You high five Troy, exchanging quick pleasantries with him before turning to Cedric.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” You ask, ignoring the teasing chortles of Cedric’s friends.

“Of course,” Cedric smiles reassuringly.

“But we have Transfiguration first up,” Troy says, “McGonagall will be pissed...”

“I’m sure she’d be willing to forgive me if I choose to let off some steam before my first task,” Cedric replies, smoothly, the edges of his lips quirking a little. Troy arches a brow.

“I see what’s happening,” Troy smirks, glancing between the two of you and nudging his friends, “(Y/N) Arden is leading our sweet, innocent Cedric astray!”

Cedric rolls his eyes as his friends burst into teasing laughter, “Ignore them, (Y/N). They’re just jealous they can’t have you...”

Troy shrugs, “I mean, you’re not wrong. I’ll be the first to admit that - when Golden Boy Cedric here started ranting obsessively about you - I was a bit jealous.”

Cedric flushes an adorable shade of pink, “I was not ‘ranting obsessively!’”

“Please, Cedric,” one of Cedric's friends pipes up. You recognise her as Kamala Siad, “The way you were talking about her, I thought you were going to propose!”

You bite your lip, warmth blooming beneath your cheeks. Cedric rolls his eyes again, his cheeks the same, romantic tint of pink as a burning sunset.

“Whatever. I’m going to go help (Y/N) now...”

Before his friends can think up any more witty remarks, Cedric takes your hand and leads you away.

“I think you may need some new friends,” you giggle as you arrive in the rose gardens, his hand still snuggly wrapped around yours.

“Tell me about it,” he groans, wincing. You smile softly at Cedric, gazing up at him and admiring for the millionth time how handsome he looks when he’s embarrassed.

“Is it true, though?” You ask, voice gentle against the autumn breeze, “Do you...do you talk about me to your friends a lot?”

Cedric interlaces your fingers with his; they fit together like two pieces of the same heart. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the pressure point between your thumb and index finger.

“I can’t deny that I’m constantly thinking about you,” Cedric’s eyes sparkle as though they contain all the secrets of the universe, “So...maybe it does slip out every now and again.”

You catch your bottom lip between your teeth and nibble down on a goofy grin, cheeks warming like sunlight on a cold day. He gazes into your eyes, pupils like obsidian against glittering sapphire, his smile pulling back to reveal a row of perfectly even, white teeth.

_Such a beautiful smile..._

“So...” Cedric begins, slowly, “Was there anything you wanted to talk about?”

“Not really. I just...I wanted to see you before the - uh - first task...”

Cedric nods in understanding, averting his gaze to a nearby tree, his smile faltering for the briefest of moments. Fear and anxiety flit across his expression, passing like a shadow before he composes himself. You give his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze and Cedric catches your gaze again.

“I appreciate it,” he murmurs, a genuine smile playing on the edges of his lips, “Really, I do. Every moment I spend with you makes me stronger.”

He pulls you into a hug and you sigh against his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist. His lips brush against the crown of your head, planting a long kiss to your hair and breathing you in like oxygen. After a long moment, you pull away, keeping your hand in his, and Cedric points at something in the tree.

“Ravens,” he smiles, and you follow his gaze. Sure enough, two ravens are perched on the branch. For a moment, you get a strange feeling that they had just been watching you, but the feeling vanishes when Cedric continues, “They mate for life, y’know...”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. In most cases, they’re so loyal to their mate that if a female’s mate dies, she won’t find another male partner again. Ever.”

You glance back at the two ravens, now playing with each other in the tree. One of them stops, as though realising it’s being watched, and cocks it’s head at you, it’s beady, black eyes clashing with your own.

You turn away, staring up at Cedric, “That’s kind of romantic, in a weird way...”

“I think it’s sad,” Cedric muses, “I mean, That’s the last thing I’d want for my wife or partner. I’d want them to be happy, y’know...”

You turn back to Cedric, wondering what you’d do if Death took him away from you in the same way it took your mother away. You squeeze his hand a little tighter, as though trying to protect him from Death’s grip.

“Kind of morbid, don’t you think?” You mumble, anxiety sprouting between your ribs like weeds.

Cedric chortles and pulls you to his side, slinging an arm over your shoulders, “You’re right. Let’s change the subject.”

The two of you begin to amble down a gravel path, breathing in the scent of roses that blossoms in the autumn air.

“About the Tournament...” you start, anxiously, “I know that Harry didn’t put his name in the Goblet of Fire.”

Cedric raises his brows, “Did you see someone else put it in?”

You chew your bottom lip, “Well, no.”

“Do you have any evidence?”

“....no” you mumble, sheepishly, and Cedric nods.

“How do you know, then?” Cedric asks, gently and unassuming, in a way that passes no judgement in your faith but just out of sheer curiosity.

You stare at Cedric, watching as sunlight streams through his hair and catches in his lashes, bringing out startling hues of blue and grey.

“I just know,” you murmur, “I just...I trust Harry. We’ve been through a lot together so I-I know when he’s lying and - and Cedric, he isn’t lying about this. I think someone put his name in the Goblet so they could plan an attack on him without it looking suspicious.”

Cedric nods again, slowly, as though chewing your comments up and dwelling on them.

“I’ll keep an eye on him for you,” he says, “Make sure he’s okay out there.”

You nearly choke on a sob of relief, lashes fluttering as your heart sings for him, like straining strings to a violin only he knows how to play.

“You would do that?” You breathe, biting your lip. Cedric raises a hand to your cheek, cupping it gently. A comforting, homely warmth tingles beneath his hand as his fingers splay across your skin.

“I’d do anything for you,” he murmurs, “Besides I couldn’t just abandon someone who needs my help.”

Your lips spread into a wide smile, tears pricking the spot behind your eyes as you stare at this boy who would risk it all for you, for your friends, for anyone who needs a helping hand, and you can’t help yourself as you throw your arms around his neck and reach up to the tips of his toes, ready to crash your lips together in a kiss that you’ve dreamt about in every single honey-glazed dream you’ve had of him-

“Miss Arden! Mr Diggory!”

You and Cedric jerk apart. Professor Sprout is standing beside you, dirt-stained hands on her hips. A hint of a smile plays on the corners of her lips, as though she were trying to fight back her amusement.

“Professor Sprout!” You exclaim in embarrassment and surprise, “Um we were just-”

“Consoling Hogwarts champion before the first task,” Professor Sprout interrupts, now not bothering to hide her smile, “I understand he must be feeling quite nervous at this stage...”

Cedric runs a hand through his glossy, brown hair, “Erm...yes. Yes, I am.”

Professor Sprout turns to you, a warm kindness in her large, brown eyes, “Well, I believe offering emotional support to a fellow student is worthy of some points. Ten points to Gryffindor,” her eyes sharpen slightly as her voice suddenly goes stern, “But I suggest that you don’t do this again, in case myself or another Professor aren’t feeling so...generous.”

You and Cedric glance at each other, biting down on a broad grin. Cedric winks at you when Professor Sprout isn’t looking. Professor Sprout stares at you expectantly.

“Well,” she prompts, impatiently, “Off you go, back to class.”

You give Cedric’s hand one last squeeze, a silent bid for good luck, and reluctantly pull away from him. Cedric starts to leave but Professor Sprout stops him.

“Not you, Mr Diggory. I’d - I’d like to have a quick word with you.”

You glance over your shoulder at Cedric, grinning at him. He beams back at you, and as you leave the rose garden, you can’t help but smile as you feel his eyes following your movements.

* * *

 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I think you’re probably right...”

You blink at Ron, unsure if you heard him correctly. It’s possible that you misheard; the hum of excited chatter buzzing in the air around the make-shift stadium is loud enough to drown out Rons murmured confession, but by the look on his face, your doubts are instantly dispelled.

“You mean about Harry?” You ask, and Ron nods sheepishly.

“Maybe he - erm - didn’t put his name in...”

Ron trails off, but you can tell by the way his lips quirk that he wants to say more, “But...?”

Ron sighs, “But...”

“(Y/N)!”

Someone is calling your name. You glance around, scanning the hundreds of faces until you spot Fred Weasley sidling toward you.

“Hey,” you try to smile, but your sick on nervous energy that putters around at the pit of your stomach. Though the smile on Fred’s lips is enough to settle your nerves for a few, fleeting moments.

Fred nods at Ron, “What’s up, prat?”

“Nothing much, git.”

Fred ruffles Rons hair and Ron wrenches himself away, smoothing down his messy hair, disgruntled. They bicker in a brotherly fashion, tossing insults at each other as you sit between them, and you find your gaze drifting, thoughts running away from you.

You bite your bottom lip, staring out at the arena where Harry and Cedric will be fighting their dragons. You can almost imagine it; the ash on your tongue and the smoke in your nose, a scream trapped in your lungs and the nail-biting intensity of your anxiety clawing away at the base of your spine like some sort of hungry beast. The next couple of hours are not going to be fun.

“You looking forward to the Tournament?” Fred asks, signature smirk curving deviously across his lips. You scowl at Fred, provoking a laugh from the twin. He throws his hands up in mock surrender and your expression softens a little, “Fine, that was a dumb question.”

“You said it,” you grumble, stifling a smirk.

“I guess I’d be feeling the same if both of my boyfriends were competing against each other.”

Your eyes snap back to Fred, sharpening into an incredulous stare, “What are you implying, Fred Weasley...?”

“Nothing,” Fred shrugs, “I’m just looking out for my brother.”

You furrow your brows at Fred, glancing at Ron briefly, only to find him wearing a similar, perplexed expression as you. When Fred doesn’t continue or explain, you decide to let the comment slide by unattended to.

“Where is George, by the way?” You ask, glancing around.

“Selling snacks,” Fred replies, simply.

“Oh, are you going to start selling shirts, too?” You ask, tone sardonic, and Fred barks a laugh.

“I love it when you’re feisty,” Fred chortles, grinning, and you roll your eyes at his teasing remark, “And you raise an interesting point. We could start selling t-shirts, we’d get loads from those...”

You shake your head, biting the side of your cheek to stop yourself from smirking at Fred’s sarcasm.

“Profiteering from the chaos,” Ron grumbles, “Why am I not surprised?”

“I’m surprised by your lack of surprise.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips from your lips as you regard him fondly in the sunlight.

“You and George always find ways to cheer me up, you know?”

Fred shrugs casually, “I suppose our natural charm is difficult to resist. Ah, speak of the devil!”

You follow Fred’s gaze and spot George at the end of it, shouldering past people before dropping down beside you.

“Hey!” he grins, reaching across to fist bump you, and you pound fists, laughing as George makes exploding sound effects, 

“So what’s a pretty girl like you doing here with these two imbeciles?” George grins, ignoring the way Fred groans and Ron opens his mouth in silent protest.

“It’s not by choice,” you quip, teasingly smirking at Fred.

“It never is,” George sighs, then leans in close to whisper in your ear, “I suggest you run for it while you still can. By the way, I saved you a couple of bags of treats,”

George tosses a bag of treats at Ron’s head and it bounces off his forehead, tumbling to the ground.

“Oi!” Ron snaps, disgruntled, as you, Fred and George laugh at his expression. George drops a bag into your lap and you thank him with a flash of a smile, fiddling with the string that ties it together.

“Where’s Hermione?” George asks, scanning his surroundings for her.

“She’s with Harry,” you murmur, leaning forward, “I’m going to go see him afterwards.”

Ron shifts awkwardly in his seat, no doubt uncomfortable with the reminder of his continuous fight with Harry.  Fred claps a hand on his knee and springs to his feet, thinking quickly.  

“I’m going to find Lee and you’re coming with me, Ron,” Fred orders, dragging Ron out of his seat. Ron glances back at you, bewildered and perplexed, and you give him a helpless shrug and an apologetic look.

George slides closer to your side and drapes an arm across your shoulders.

“You alright?” George asks, surveying you with a touch of concern, “You’re looking a little...”

“I look a little what?” You ask, expectantly, almost daring George to finish his sentence.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, “But all I’m saying, is that - if you’re feeling nervous - don’t be. I’m sure Harry is quite capable, it’s what he volunteered for after all...”

“No, he didn’t,” you snip, firmly.

"You still believe that he didn't put his name in the Goblet himself, huh?"

“Merlin what is  _with_  you boys,” you snap, angrily, “First Ron, then Cedric, now you...”

George shrugs, “Well, how did his name get in there?”

You sigh. There’s something about saying the question out loud that makes it infinitely more difficult to answer, “I don’t know, George. I just know Harry wasn’t the one who put it in there...”

George studies you for a moment, eyes sweeping over every detail on your face, and you resist the urge to squirm under his intense scrutiny. He seems to be hesitating, biting his tongue in a way you had never seen the twins to do before.

“What is it with you and Harry?” George asks, rather bluntly.

You flush, cheeks warming uncomfortably, “Nothing...”

“Oh, because of whatever’s going on between you and Cedric?”

“Maybe...”

George nods, smirk strained at the edges, like he’s trying to tack it over his lips to hide all the words he’s struggling to say.

“You know, I’m happy for you. Cedric’s a great guy...”

You tug on your bottom lip bashfully, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His name has such a profound effect on you like it’s a charm designed to bewitch your heart and fill your chest with millions of butterflies.

“He is...” You breathe, smiling broadly as you reflect on the morning you had spent with him.  

“Yeah...almost too good, if you know what I mean...”

You turn to George, brows knitted in confusion as you stare at him, “What’s that supposed to-?”

_Click_

The sound of a camera capturing the moment in a photograph rings in the air surrounding you and George, drawing your attention away from his peculiar comment to Noah Underwood, who had just snapped the unexpected photo. You shoot him a glare and he shrugs, impassively.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “It looked interesting. Don’t mind if I use it for the paper? Everyone will probably love to see a picture of their famous writer in the school newsletter.”

You shrug nonchalantly and George flashes a wicked grin.

“Sure,” George grins, “Do you want an actual photo of us posing?”

Noah gives a small shrug, watching as George angles himself toward the camera and draws an excitable expression across his face. You rearrange your face into a friendly smile, forcing yourself to relax. Noah’s camera flashes again once, twice, thrice, before he lowers the device and gives a firm nod. You frown at Noah, noticing the name scribbled into the side of the camera.

“So...you found your camera?” You ask, and Noah glances up at you before returning his gaze to his camera.

“Nah, this is just another one I bought last year,” Noah murmurs, not bothering to look up as he fiddles with his camera.

“Oh,” You bleat, “ By the way, Noah, this is my friend, George. George, this is Noah.”

Noah’s sharp, black eyes flick to George, gaze sweeping up and down as though assessing him, before turning back to you, “I know who he is.”

“See, (Y/N), I’m already so famous, I don’t even need an introduction,” George jokes, lips splitting and curling into a teasing grin. Noah rolls his eyes.

“Well, see you around,” Noah mutters, his eyes holding yours for a brief moment before flitting to George one last time. He scowls and sighs, striding away with fluid, easy movements.  

“That kid is strange,” George murmurs in an undertone, watching Noah’s retreating form as he shrinks into the crowd.

Hermione arrives moments later, hurrying towards you with a look of concern and urgency. She drops beside you, utters a mumbled greeting to George, and leans in close to you.

“Harry’s ready to see you whenever you are,” she whispers, glancing at George, and you nod, sliding yourself out of George’s arm and heading off toward the tent.

As you approach it, Bagman’s voice booms through the air, echoing across the make-shift stadium as he addresses the crowd. As you pass several people, you spot Cedric looking more worried than excited, a slightly green tinge to his usually perfect complexion. You catch his eye and flash him your warmest, most genuine smile and Cedric visibly relaxes, fighting his own feelings of anxiety by flashing you a boyish smile, tight-lipped from nerves. He’s whisked away before you can even approach him, and, moments later, the roar of the crowd tears through the air as Cedric makes his appearance.

Finally, you arrive at the tent and slip past the folds, beaming when you spot Harry in the far corner.

“(Y/N)!” Harry practically sings, striding toward you. Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum barely pay you any mind as you throw your arms around Harry, squeezing him tight in what you hope is a comforting hug. You sigh his name against his ear, burying your head in the crook of his neck as he holds you close, “Merlin, I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I wasn’t lying when I told you I’d always be here for you this morning,” you murmur, untangling yourself from his arms.

Harry gives a half-hearted smile, though it looks dim compared to the radiant smiles his lips usually pull into.

“Can you - I mean - I was wondering if you could stay with me until...” Harry breaks off, glancing shyly at his feet.

“Of course, Harry,” you smile gently at your best friend, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Always. Remember?”

Harry nods and leads you toward a cot he had been sitting on. The two of you sit in tense silence, listening to the crowd clap and cheer and Bagman’s commentary. Harry’s stoic expression remained somewhat calm, despite the challenges that lay ahead of him today, and you couldn’t help but marvel at how composed he seems, compared to your constant cycle of worry.

Harry was always good at putting on a brave face. He had done so whenever the four of you embarked on your adventures, always the first to lead the way. Nobility and chivalry were two of the many defining characters that Harry had, but his Gryffindor courage was perhaps his most commendable.

Still, you can’t stop yourself as you reach forward with a trembling hand and grasp his hand, squeezing it tightly as you listen to Cedric, then Fleur, then Viktor fights their dragons. And when the whistle sounds and the crowds fall silent in anticipation, you find that your muscles don’t want to let go.

Harry reluctantly breaks away from you, though your hand still latches onto his. As he moves to pull away, you give one last desperate tug, gazing up at him fearfully.

“Please, Harry, please be careful.”

Harry nods solemnly, green eyes wide with fear, and before you know it you’re flinging yourself into his embrace, wrapping your arms around his neck, paving a path through his dishevelled, black hair with your fingertips, clinging to him like you don’t want to let go. He holds you as though you were anchoring him, afraid to plunge into the depths of his own uncertainty and fear, and you want to stay like this forever and ever, wrapped in each other as you stand on the brink of uncharted territory, but then you remember yourself and you untangle yourself from his arms, pulling away.

And as Harry leaves the tent, you can’t help but feel like he’s carrying your bounding heart with him.

 

* * *

 

Your best friend and your sort-of boyfriend tie in the first task of the Tournament, and you couldn’t be more thrilled.

Honestly, it’s more relief than it is excitement; it only took a fight with a Dragon for Ron to see reason and apologise to Harry, thus ending their feud and reuniting the ‘Golden Quartet’, as the four of you are so commonly called. Just knowing that the four of you are no longer divided is enough to leave you grinning goofily and floating on air as you make your way toward the Gryffindor common room, Ron’s arm draped lazily across your shoulder.  

“Honest to Merlin, if you two fight again, I’m smashing your thick heads together!” you say on your way back from the Owlery, earning a snort from Harry and a laugh from Ron, “Seriously, guys, don’t ever put me through that again or I might just break down and have a premature mid-life crisis. The three of you have already put me through enough with your little secret conversations!”

The air shifts into hesitation and awkwardness, and for a moment, you think you may have rained on their victory parade. The feeling leaves you, though, when the four of you enter the common room and greeted with boisterous cheers that are so loud, they nearly blow you over.

The common room has been decorated with banners (drawn by Dean Thomas, you recognize the art style). The food table is filled with cakes and sweets, the air shimmers with fireworks set off by Lee Jordan, a dance floor has been set up in the middle of the room, and the atmosphere hums with indisputable excitement at Harry’s victory.

“I’m going to get us some drinks,” Hermione shouts over the crowd and heads toward the drink stand.

“And we’re going to dance,” you exclaim, grinning broadly as you snatch the golden egg from Harry and hand it to Lee, who nearly buckles beneath it’s weight. Pushing through the crowd of people swarming toward Harry, you drag Harry and Ron toward the dance floor.  

Harry pauses on the outskirts of the dance floor, hesitant, “(Y/N)…”

You roll your eyes at Harry, “Harry, you just fought a fucking  _dragon_. I think you deserve this…”

Harry glances around sheepishly, but Ron playfully shoves him toward you and he stumbles onto the dance floor.

Music floods the room, soaking into your skin and gushing through your veins. You can feel it fill every cell in your body, controlling your movements as you laugh and swing your hips to the rhythm. Ron bops along, cracking jokes at your lack of coordination, and you roll your eyes at him.

“And what exactly are you doing, Ron? The Oompa Loompa dance?”

Ron’s brows knit together in confusion at your reference.

“Hermione never told you about Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory?” you ask, and Ron shakes his head, “Never mind. It was a muggle movie based on a book.”

Hermione finds you on the dance floor, holding two cups of butterbeer while another two cups float beside her. She hands them out to the three of you, and you all take a swig.

“You guys have fun, I’m going to be over there–”

“Oh, no,” you say, grinning devilishly, “You’re dancing with us, Hermione Granger.”

“No I’m not!” Hermione says, swiftly.

“Yes, you are,” you insist, firmly, “We’re dancing together, and we’re not arguing about this a moment longer.”

Hermione scowls, but her expression melts away when Ron takes her hand and yanks her into the circle.

“No point arguing with her,” Ron says over the music, “Just have some fun, Hermione! We’re celebrating Harry’s victory!”

Hermione’s cheeks flush pink as she sighs, her posture relaxing as she hesitantly begins to dance. Soon enough, she begins to lose herself in the music, and the four of you dance in a circle, laughing while the world revolves around you.

It hardly feels like the past few months have happened as you as the four of you dance away the stress and anxiety that had perched on your shoulders like a menacing demon. Normalcy settles in, tearing through the tension pounding against your ribs. You want to bottle these moments and smear them on your wrists like a fine perfume.

You glance at Harry and find his eyes already on you, drinking you in like fire whiskey. Beaming and intoxicated on liquid adrenaline, he resembles the same Harry you had sat across from in Fred and George’s treehouse in the summer holidays. Bold and brilliant and beautiful, relaxed and gazing at you as though you were the only star in his midnight sky.

You dance toward him, leaning into him, and wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close as the two of you clumsily waltz together. You breathe him in, registering the scent of smoke and butterbeer and  _life_ , a kind of fragrance that not even the richest of wizards could afford, because it’s  _Harry_  and he’s  _here_ , in your arms, his hands resting on your waist, wrapping around you and holding you like he’s afraid you might fade to dust…

“I love you, (Y/N),” he murmurs into your hair, like a secret made just for you, the words tingling in your ears and kissing the scars on your heart, “I always have, and I always will.”

You pull away from him, tears welling in your eyes, to find Harry smiling warmly at you. His lips are pulled into a smile worth more than any diamond necklace, more than all the stars strung together in the sky.

“I love you, too,” you whisper, “You’ll always be my best friend…always.”

Harry’s smile falters a bit, trembling at the corners, but then it fills out again graciously, “I know.”

The two of you sway to the rhythm, letting it wash over you like a wave as you cling to Harry and Harry welcomes you into his embrace. Neither of you moves with any precise movement, you just allow the music to sweep you away, like leaves in a breeze, following the beat and allowing it to pulse through you, puppeteer your movements, your mind drifting away from you like clouds as your body moves on its own accord.

Nothing has ever felt so natural before, so reassuring in a way that cannot be translated into words. Harry seems to realise this, too, as every now and then he squeezes your waist as though to remind himself that you’re in his arms, not someone else's, and if you weren’t so relieved, you would have thought that was odd. Instead, you allow yourself to be carried away with the moment, collecting every minute of it like seeds and scattering it in the meadow inside your ribcage.  

You know it won’t last forever. Harry is going to have to break away at some point, and he will have to talk with the other Gryffindors, listen to them congratulate him on his victory, and ask about that egg. But perhaps that’s the beauty of it. Perhaps that’s why it makes moments like these so precious; because they don’t last forever, so you have to cling to them while you can.

With this in mind, you push away the secrets that had been building up between the two of you, the strange conversations with Ron and Hermione and the odd looks that Harry had occasionally cast your way. Instead, you focus on this single moment in time, this one that you may never get back, and you hug him, hold him tighter, keeping him trapped in your arms like a bird in a cage, like your bounding heart locked away in your chest. 

In Harry’s arms, you dance the night away, oblivious to the pair of ancient eyes watching your every move.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, guys. 7,732 words is the longest fic I’ve ever written. I can’t even rn…I’m so tired and I’ve been working like so hard on this chapter and Young gods I’ve stocked up on tequila and vodka lol so after the next two chapters are released I can have a fucking Fiesta !! Just an FYI things are gonna start getting darker now. 
> 
> For those of you who don't read CT on Tumblr, I recently celebrated Luke's birthday so this is a little nod to Luke in this chapter :)
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my sister, Mariana ‘Maia/Maui’ Tori - I loved you then, I love you now, and I’ll love you always. RIP belle fiore 🥀 1996 - 2004

***

_Friday, December 18th_

***

The strange parcel arrives late at night with no return address.

You recognise the signature style all too quickly and your stomach curls in on itself, heart shuddering and throat constricting like a straw.

After weeks of silence, the mysterious sender is back again and it looks like they’ve upgraded from creepy photo to mysterious box.

It’s sitting on your bed like a plain, Pandora’s box, inviting you to open it and unleash a tempest of chaos. You approach it slowly, hesitantly, icy blood gushing through your crystallised veins like Antarctic waters travelling down the deltas of a cold-blooded monster. A part of you needs to see this; it could be clues, a lead, something that could aid you in this impossible investigation. But the other part of you is wary, perhaps even a little afraid, because you’re not sure if you’re prepared to face whatever is in this box.

Either way, you find yourself standing in front of it, peering down at the familiar scrawl written across the top, and you slice the string holding it together, gripping the lid and squeezing your eyes shut so you can muster up every single ounce of your Gryffindor courage, tearing the lid off and-

You gasp.

***

_Thursday, December 10th_

***

Unsurprisingly, news about the Yule Ball spread quicker than a wildfire, tangling the school in a sticky web of rumours and gossip.

It’s all Parvati, Padma and Lavender can talk about after your weekly Howler meeting, much to the dismay of Dean Thomas, who sits on the fringe of their conversation, looking equal parts exasperated and nervous while the girls whisper and giggle beside him.

You can’t exactly blame them. The Yule Ball at Hogwarts is combining two of the most whimsical events and squeezing them into one night. Celebrating Christmas while dressing up and dancing with your date? Of course, all the girls would be excited; it’s an excuse to dress up and spend the night with people you care about.

The boys, however, do not share the girl’s enthusiasm for the Ball. Flustered and nervous, a lot of the boys at Hogwarts have had difficulty approaching the subject of dates, since according to tradition, it’s their responsibility to find one.

Harry had been shocked when McGonagall told him that he would have to find a dancing partner after Transfiguration earlier today. As a Champion, he had no choice in the matter, which meant that if he didn’t find a partner soon, he’d risk embarrassing himself in front of the entire school.

Ron, too, was starting to grow anxious about who he would ask to the ball, and Hermione had become impatient with him. Honestly, you couldn’t blame her; she was the most obvious choice to ask, yet Ron continued to allow his obliviousness blind him from what’s right in front of him. Hermione had been tempted to slap both Ron and Harry around the head and point out that they didn’t have to look very far, but you had stopped her before she could. While it would be enjoyable to go with Harry, you were hoping to be asked by someone else…

A touch of worry pricks your chest. What if you don’t get asked by anyone? That was a possibility you hadn’t really considered, given that you had been clinging hopefully to the prospect of being asked by Cedric.

Though to be fair, both you and Cedric have been so caught up in school work and…extracurricular activities, you hadn’t even had an opportunity to talk to one another, let alone arrange a date. Still, you supposed that there was still just over a week until the Ball…plenty of time to arrange a date…

“-hoping for a new camera for Christmas, mine is looking a little shabby, though Noah says that’s okay as long as it functions properly,” Colin Creevey says, excitedly, rambling at a million miles per hour, “He doesn’t really talk that much, does he? But he takes really good photos. I wonder if he could take a photo of me and Dennis with Harry? That would be awesome! Though I do feel a bit sorry for him, I heard that his sister-”

Your mind drifts again, eyes travelling past Colin and spotting Dean in the distance. He waves you over desperately, a pleasing expression written across his face.

“-isn’t that  _sad_? She was always really nice to me so when Professor Dumbledore announced that she had died last year, I was really quite shocked. Nice of Professor Dumbledore to pay his respects to her, eh? He’s such a great Headmaster, he’s made Dennis and I feel at ease-”

“-That reminds me!” You interrupt, hurriedly, “I have to quickly speak to Dean about…something that Professor Dumbledore wanted so I’ll just-”

“Oh, yeah?” Colin asks, cheeks dimpled and eyes wide, “That’s so cool! Dean is such a great artist, he’s going to go far. Hey, I wonder if Harry has seen any of his work. Maybe I should ask Dean to sketch a picture of me and Harry together? Do you think Harry would like that for Christmas? You’d know best, you and Harry are basically-”

“-Yeah, that’s great,” you interrupt, hastily, already walking away from Colin, “See you Colin!”

Colin waves cheerily at you and plods away, approaching Juniper and Daisy and launching into a rambling lecture. You bite your lip, guilt plucking your chest. He really is a sweet boy, little Colin Creevey, who has idolised Harry since Colin arrived at Hogwarts. Leaving him feels mean, but you have a feeling that he could chat to you about everything and nothing for hours on end and still not tire out.

Ignoring your guilt and Colin’s excited voice that carries across the room, you approach Dean, who looks grateful at your arrival.

“Excited for the ball?” You tease, arching a coy eyebrow and Dean sighs.

“I can’t concentrate with the girls gossiping beside me,” Dean groans, rubbing soothing circles into his temples.

You shrug, sliding onto his desk and toying subconsciously with a loose fabric on your skirt, “You got to admit though, it is pretty exciting. Rumour has it that Celestine Warbeck is going to perform.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “Pretty sure that’s still just a rumour.”

You give an exaggerated sigh, as though severely disappointed by this news, “Yeah. But it’d be nice though, right?”

Dean grins, “Oh boy, if that were true, I would be way more excited for this ball thingy.”

“I think everyone would be.”

“I don’t think it’s possible for the girls to be more excited than they already are.”

“Oh trust me, you’d be surprised.”

Dean snorts, studying you for a moment, his dark eyes glittering amicably, “I don’t suppose anyone’s asked you yet, have they?”

This time, it’s your turn to snort, “Oh,  _please_  Dean. I’ve been getting offers left, right and centre. I practically had to sneak my way here to avoid being swarmed by them all…” you pause for comedic effect, “… _not_.”

Dean chuckles, rolling his quill between his fingers, “Well, if you don’t get asked soon - which, I mean, you totally  _will_  get asked I’m not saying you’re not - I mean-you’re pretty so I’m sure you’ll get offers - not that  _I_  think you’re pretty because - I mean - we’re just good friends - but I don’t think you’re ugly - you’re definitely  _not_  ugly I can tell you that right now - I mean -”

You raise your brows expectantly at him, smirking as you watch Dean sputter and stumble over his words. After another few seconds of spluttering, you finally decide to intervene, amused by his awkwardness.

“Dean Thomas, are you trying to ask me to the Ball?”

Dean averts his gaze, staring at his quill. The conversation beside you has gone quiet, the three girls pausing mid-sentence to eavesdrop on your conversation. Dean exhales a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yes,” he mumbles, “I’m asking you to the ball. But as friends!” He adds, briskly, shooting a look at the girls giggling beside him, “And as a…um…Plan B…”

You smile warmly at him, his offer and awkwardness endearing. Placing a hand on his shoulder, you give him a subtle wink and beam at him.

“I would be honoured to have you as my Plan B.”

A burst of girlish giggles bubble into the air around you, cutting off Dean’s relieved chortles. Parvati and Lavender are both red-faced, hands clamped across their lips in a failed attempt to muffle their giggles. Padma, however, is grinning teasingly, glancing between you and Dean.

“Aw,” she gushes, reaching out to ruffle both yours and Deans hair, “You guys would be so cute together.”

“As friends,” you add, hastily, “Dean is my good ol’ pal and the best back up plan I’ve ever had.”

Dean clutches his chest through his shirt, “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You frown at him, though you can’t stop the grin stretching across your lips, “I think you need to find yourself some new friends, then.”

Dean shrugs, “I suppose I do.”

As Padma and Dean begin to chat amongst themselves, you allow your gaze to drift away from their conversation, spotting Noah in the corner of the room. He’s bent over a desk, staring intensely at some photos, hands pressed flat against the desk in front of him. His aviator’s jacket is too big for him; it swamps around his tall and lithe form almost drowning him in leather and wool.

You make your way towards him and lean against the desk, peering down at the photos in front of him.

They’re scenic landscapes snapped from various spots around Hogwarts, though they look incredibly different, enhanced even, as though you’re looking at places you take for granted through a different lens. There’s a photo of the Whomping Willow, the Courtyard, Hagrid’s hut and an excitable Fang. Noahs even made Blast-Ended Skrewts look more interesting than ugly killing machines.

“You’re a really good photographer, you know,” you murmur, smiling down at Noah’s photos.

“These are nothing,” Noah mutters, apathetically, “The camera that Maia gave me could make these photos look like they were taken by six-year-olds mucking around with a cheap Kodak.”

You bite your lip, ignoring the obvious Muggle reference ( _what in Merlin’s name is a Kodak anyway?_ ) and consider Noah carefully, “I’m sorry about your camera.”

Noah shrugs, “It’s not the camera that I’m worried about…”

You think about resting a comforting hand on his, but decide against it.

“I’m sorry about Maia, too.”

Noah swallows thickly and turns away. He’s silent for a long time, and you’re afraid you may have overstepped your boundaries when Noah rasps a reply.

“What is it that they say? Time will heal the scars,” he whispers, as though trying to convince himself that it’s true.

You chew the inside of your cheek, hesitating for a moment, before carefully stringing your next words together.

“What was Maia like?” You ask, warily, “I only met her twice and she seemed really nice…”

A ghost of a smile plays across Noah’s lips, “She was…funny, she’d make me laugh even when I didn’t want to. And she could be feisty, Christ, she was  _feisty_ , and so  _bloody_  bossy. I guess that’s why she was the Hufflepuff and I was the Slytherin because she was happy and free-spirited and she…” Noah bites his lip, as though stifling a laugh, “…she used to cry whenever she listened to Cat Stevens. And she had this thing about collars - they always had to be folded back otherwise they’d annoy her. And photos, she loved photos but she couldn’t take one to save her life. They’d always come out blurry or dark or off centre and she’d always laugh…”

Noah pauses in thought, as though sinking into sepia-stained memories. He allows himself a tiny smile, “Maia always said that I’d be the photographer in the family. That was what she wanted for me. She was going to be a teacher and I was going to be a famous photographer.”

Noah blinks and averts his gaze, turning away from you.

“You were the first person who said that to me, you know,” he whispers, voice hoarse, “That night when Dumbledore…” he trails off, blinking hard. He turns back to you, black eyes shimmering with something you don’t quite recognise, and he’s close enough for you notice for the first time that he has a scar knitted into his left eyebrow, “Everyone else thinks I’m a weirdo or that I ki-“

Noah suddenly cuts himself off, as though in realisation. His expression flickers, anger suddenly shadowing his face, and he turns to glare angrily at you.

“Don’t- Don’t  _do_  that!” he snaps, pointing a shaky finger at you, and you frown at him, confused.

“What do you mean?” You ask.

“Make me tell you things about…” he blinks, black eyes glinting dangerously, “…about Maia and me and-and make it seem like you care when you don’t! You’re-you’re just like everyone else, like Delores and-and Malfoy and her stupid boyfriend and everyone who didn’t give a shit about Maia when she was alive!”

You try to reach out and pat him but before you can even touch him, Noah flinches, as though he’s expecting you to hit him. Red stains his cheeks in shame as he backs away from you, a distant touch of fear creeping into his eyes. He retreats hurriedly, nearly stumbling out of the door, and you try to follow him when someone catches your wrist.

You glance behind you, finding Troy’s wrist gently pulling you back. He looks both worried and sympathetic as he releases your wrist, fiddling with the paintbrush behind his ear.

“He needs space,” Troy explains, “Space and time. Noah strikes me as the kind of person who likes to keep things bottled up.”

You nod in understanding, chewing your bottom lip thoughtfully, “Do you know who Delores is? Noah mentioned her just now…”

Troy hesitates, as though unsure whether it’s his place to say. He concedes after a moment of silent deliberation, “Delores is Noah’s mother. Maia told me about her. They have a…troubled relationship-”

“His mother is a junkie who cares more about her current boyfriend and getting high than she does about her own kids,” Daisy drawls, bluntly, suddenly appearing at your side, “Maia used to ask me to keep an eye on him, make sure the other kids don’t bully him because he gets enough of that from home.”

“Oh…” you murmur, slowly.

“Yeah,” Troy says, staring at his feet.

An uncomfortable silence passes between the three of you as you stand in a circle, processing what had just happened. Daisy leaves as abruptly as she came, stalking across the room to Juniper’s side. Troy has his hands in his pockets, rubbing his shoes together before he smiles and nods at something behind you.

“I think you have a little visitor,” Troy beams. You spin around and grin, crouching down to welcome Nightshade into your arms.

“What are you doing here, B?” You coo, kissing Nightshade on her head. She rubs herself against your leg, tail curling in the air and she purrs and meows at you.

You scratch her ear, fingers grazing against her collar before you spot something folded inside her bell. Frowning, you carefully pull away a small piece of paper and you unfold it, nervously, hoping with all your might it isn’t related to the photo pinned to your investigation board and you stare down at it, taking in the familiar writing and you-

You smile, bite your lip, watching as dozens of tiny, red hearts shudder to life and flutter off the page like butterflies in the spring. You watch as they spell out words in mid air, tracing around invisible letters until they form a coherent sentence that reads, in unmistakable cursive writing;

_Will you go to the Ball with me?_

You laugh, recognising the style of it all, knowing the only person who is capable at something so sweet and romantic is-

“Will you go to the Ball with me?”

Cedric Diggory.

The heart butterflies scatter, fluttering away as though being carried away in a summer breeze. Cedric standing at the end of the hallway, grinning broadly at you. He strides toward you in smooth movements, one arm bent behind his back, beaming brightly, his blue eyes never straying from yours. A tiny laugh of disbelief slips from your lips as you smile, gazing lovingly at him until he stops right in front of you.

Cedric stretches out the arm bent behind his back, brandishing a cupcake with a giant, red love heart planted on top, holding it to his face as he awaits your answer.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, swept away by the dramatics, “Are-are you bribing me with food?”

Cedric chuckles lightly, “I knew that this would be the driving force that would compel you to come with me.”

“You must really want me as your date,” you murmur, a simpering smile curling graciously across your lips.

“More than anything,” Cedric whispers, gazing at you longingly. His blue eyes sparkle like sunlight dancing off the ocean. He’s absolutely mesmerising…

“Okay,” you giggle, suddenly giddy, “I’ll come with you to the Ball.”

Cedric sweeps you into his arms and twirls you around in a hug. You shriek a laugh as he lifts you off your feet, hands buried in his hair as he spins you before placing you gently on your feet. He grins goofily, eyes narrowing on your lips, hungry for a kiss you are all too willing to give him, and you reach up, wrapping your arms around his neck, guiding his lips onto yours until-

“Ahem.”

Troy clears his throat.

Cedric reluctantly pulls away from you as you crane your neck, suddenly remembering that Troy is there.

“I’ll…give you guys some privacy,” Troy mumbles, cheeks pink. He steps back into the Newsroom and closes the door and you turn back to Cedric.

“So…” you start, slowly, “Are we going to…?” You nod at the cupcake still in Cedric’s hand. Cedric laughs.

“Oh,” He says, “Right.”

Nightshade meows, gazing up at Cedric with large, green eyes, staring at the cupcake longingly.

“I guess you deserve a treat or two,” Cedric says, crouching down to feed a piece of cupcake. She eats from his hand, carefully licking the tiny crumbs from his palm as Cedric strokes her head.

You beam at Cedric as you watch him affectionately scratch Nightshade, heart swelling like a balloon, suddenly understanding the excitement surrounding the Yule Ball and making a mental note to tell Dean that you won’t need a Plan B anymore…

***

_Thursday December 17th_

***

You wake up early on the morning of Luke’s birthday, grinning from ear-to-ear.

As per the usual birthday tradition, you had picked out the most ugliest Christmas sweater you could find - complete with itchy wool and an unflattering turtleneck collar - and had wrapped it in embarrassingly bright wrapping paper. You can just imagine Luke’s face when he unwraps it; contorting in both disgust and amusement but holding it to his chest.

The rules were that he had to wear the sweater all day for the entire day, no excuses. Last year, McGonagall had been so unimpressed, she had nearly begged Luke to burn the sweater to a crisp and had threatened to send him to detention for the day if he didn’t.

But that wasn’t the only birthday tradition the Arden siblings had amongst themselves.

They also had to bake the worst tasting birthday cake with whatever they could find and dare each other to eat it. Once, you had baked a cake during the holidays using eggs, tomato sauce, flour, mushrooms, oats, sugar, spearmint and hot sauce and saved it for Luke’s birthday. When you had dared Luke to eat a slice, Luke, never one to turn down a challenge, had devoured the entire thing. He had then spent the next hour bent over a toilet bowl but, really, that was his own doing. You had only dared him to eat one slice, not the whole damn thing.

This year was no different; you have to keep to the Arden tradition and bake a disgusting cake. The problem is, you don’t know where the kitchens are. Last year, you had made it ahead of time and had preserved it using a cooking charm (perhaps that was why Luke reacted so… _violently_  to it) but this year, you had been more preoccupied and less organised.

You make your way down to the Common Room, wondering how you’re going to sneak into the boy’s dormitory and steal the Marauders Map when you suddenly run into a tall and firm figure.

“Woah,” you gasp under your breath, staggering backwards. A strong arm catches you by your arm before you can fall flat on your ass.

“Sorry,” George Weasley snickers, “I didn’t see you there; you’re kind of tiny, (Y/N). You’re definitely a tripping hazard.”

You scowl at him and rearrange your clothes, ironing your skirt with the palms of your hands.

“Anyone tell you you’re a class A asshole?”

“On many occasions, actually,” George grins, then shrugs, “Sticks and stones.”

“Whatever works for you,” you snip, a smirk tugging on the corners of your lips, “Anyway, what are you doing here so early?”

“We could ask you the same thing,” says Fred, sauntering toward you.

“I’m baking a cake for Luke,” you explain, grinning, “It’s his birthday and we usually bake each other really disgusting cakes and get each other terrible gifts. It’s kind of an Arden thing.”

Fred and George exchange a mischievous glance.

“Sounds like you need to head to the kitchens,” Fred smirks down at you,

“You guys know where it is?” You ask, hopefully, and Fred nods.

“Ready for a private tour?” George asks, grinning devilishly, his eyes shimmering and a thrill courses through you.

You beam at him.

***

The kitchens look like they’ve just crawled out of Hermione’s worst nightmares.

House-elves are everywhere; bustling around the large kitchens, looking harried but content as they buzz around the room. They work around you, occasionally rushing up to you to offer you various sweets and treats, practically imploring you with round orbs to enjoy their homemade delicacies.

You’ve learned that it’s better just to accept the cakes and cookies instead of politely declining, and you enjoy the ones you’ve gathered with Fred and George as you sit in front of a large oven, watching Luke’s cake swell inside of the cake tin.

“I’m surprised it’s actually baking,” George observes, nodding at the oven, “Are we sure that’s even a cake in there?”

“If it has flour, egg, milk and sugar, then it’s a cake,” you state, biting into a cookie and moaning in delight, “These cookies are to die for.”

“Right?” Fred marvels in agreement, “I mean, they’re not as good as Mums but they’re still pretty darn good.”

Your eyes flutter closed and a smile stretches across your lips as you chew languidly on another cookie, savouring the sweet flavour as it oozes onto your tongue. You hum in delight again as you begin licking chocolate off the tips of your fingers.

You open your eyes and catch George watching you with a strange expression on his face. He boldly maintains eye contact, something unfamiliar flashing in his pupils.

Fred glances between the two of you, intrigued, “I’m going to go take some of these to Lee,” he announces, standing and stretching.

You break away from George and watch him as he leaves.

“That was odd,” You note, frowning as the portrait door closes shut.

“Fred is a bit of an oddity anyway,” George shrugs, sliding closer to you, “How’s that cake going?”

You peer through the glass, studying the cake, “Honestly? I don’t know, though I want it to burn so I guess another twenty minutes or so.”

You turn back to George, whose scoffing down an incredible amount of cookies.

“So, you excited for the Ball?” He asks through a mouthful of cookies.

You grin uncontrollably, “Yeah, I am.”

“Found anyone to go with?”

“Yeah,” You slide your bottom lip between your teeth, “I’m going with Cedric.”

George stops cramming cookies into his mouth and swallows, forcing a strained smile onto his lips.

“Oh. That’s…good.”

You shrug meekly, trying not to appear as giddy as you feel, “Yeah. Are you going with anyone?”

“Uh-Harper Shacklebolt.”

You nearly choke on your laughter, “What?! You managed to convince Harper Shacklebolt to leave the Newsroom?”

George flashes a devilish grin, “Well, it wasn’t that hard. I just had to turn up the old Weasley twin charm and she was practically falling for me.”

You roll your eyes, chortling at George’s confidence, “Huh, interesting. Well, you might have some competition. Did you know Harper has a pen pal?”

“Is that so?” George arches an eyebrow, intrigued, “And who would that be?”

“Someone with the initials ‘O.W.’, which could only be-”

“Oliver Wood,” George’s lips break into a smirk, chortles slipping from his lips, “I can’t see that lasting too long. They’re both stubborn and passionate about other things. Wasn’t Harper and Luke a thing for a while?”

You bark a laugh, “ _Ha_. Luke and Harper? Harper is so out of Luke’s league, he’d probably have to pinch his dick to make sure he isn’t dreaming.”

George laughs at that, and the sound travels through you, glowing in your chest and probing your own laughter to spill from your lips.

“Must have just been some silly rumours,” George shrugs, “By the way, I think his cake is burning.”

You turn back to the oven as smoke begins to bleed through the cracks in the oven, filling the air with a horrid, acrid smell.

“Yup, that would be about right,” You chortle, grinning, “He’s going to  _love_  it.”

***

Luke is on his way to the library when you spot him.

He’s pacing down the hallway, moving quickly, and you nearly have to break into a sprint just to catch up with him. It’s a little uncharacteristic, given that he usually saunters lazily but in a businesslike manner. Casual, but cool and composed. 

Today, he’s in a rush, taking long, deliberate strides and not giving you a chance to catch your breath as you struggle to catch up to him.

He rounds the corner, and you’re about to call out to him when someone else beats you to it, cutting you off with a thick, smokey accent.

“I vas beginning to zink you vere going to flake on me, Lukas!”

Kazimir Volkov strolls up to him, smirk like a sharp dash across his lips. He looks impressive and menacing, but Luke isn’t afraid.

Kaz stops right in front of Luke, eyes flashing with something both dangerous and alluring, as though he’s trying to assert his dominance but is also trying to seduce Luke into relaxation.

Luke stops, glancing around furtively. When he’s certain that no one is looking, Luke’s composure relaxes, steel melting off his shoulders like mercury. He greets Kaz like an old friend, nodding at him and flashing a charming smile. Curious, you press yourself against the wall, peeking out from behind it.

Luke leans forward, speaking in an undertone.

“I thought we agreed to talk in Russian?”

Kaz’s smirk broadens, “Why, you don’t vant anyone knowing zat Hogvart’s Golden Boy is up to no good?”

“Well, yeah,” Luke snips, a little impatiently, “I mean, it’s more about my sister than anything. If she knew…”

“She’d understand,” Kaz murmurs, then shrugs, “But if zat’s what you vant…”

Luke and Kaz begin covering in Russian, speaking rapidly. You furrow your brows, straining to listen to their conversation, but you never learnt Russian and they’re speaking too fast for you to pick up on any familiar sounding words.

Two words pop out from their conversation; you only recognise them because they are repeated by both Kaz and Luke;  _krov’ Niks_

_Krov Niks…? What the heck is that supposed to mean?_

Sighing, you’re just about to leave when Kaz suddenly retrieves something from the inside of his Durmstrang robes. You squint, leaning forward, spotting a small vial with black, glittering liquid inside. It resembles melted obsidian; sunlight bounces off small flecks of silver and gold.

Luke takes the vial and pockets it, nodding at Kaz in gratitude.

You flatten your back against the wall, thinking fast. What kind of potion could Luke possibly want that he couldn’t brew himself? What is he up to? And why does he have to keep it a secret when you’ve never let any secrets stand between the two of you–?

“Lulu!”

You jump, startled by Luke’s surprised voice, a fleeting look of panic flitting across his face. Your mouth flaps open, searching desperately for a good excuse, momentarily forgetting about the gifts in your hand until Luke’s gaze drops to them.

“Oh!” You bleat, nervously, “Oh I was…looking for you because I – uh – it’s your birthday and I wanted to give you your birthday presents…”

“Oh,” Luke says, biting his lip nervously, “Thanks.”

You hand him his sweater and cake and iron your clammy hands on your skirt, “Happy Birthday.”

Luke balances his presents on one hand and ruffles your hair with the other, “Thanks, (Y/N). I can’t wait to try what delicious, home-baked cake you conjured up for me this year.”

“Fred and George helped me whip it up,” you smirk, teasingly.

“Ah,” Luke nods, mirroring your smirk, “Well, then, it’ll be a masterpiece.”

Luke lassos you into a one-armed hug, pulling you to his chest, and for a moment, you forget about that strange vial in Luke’s pocket.

* * *

***

_Friday, December 18th_

***

The last day of term ends with a gruelling test on Antidotes in Potions.

Fortunately, you had studied hard for this test; it was hard to do anything other than study when your best friend is Hermione Granger. But your hard work paid off in the end, earning you full marks from a somewhat sour Snape.

“I see you’ve proven to be worth more than just a pretty face,” Snape has grumbled, peering down into your cauldron after class, “All that time spent with Granger must have rubbed off on you.”

You had screwed your jaw shut in an effort to stop yourself from snapping back at Snape, knowing that your marks and House Points were worth more than any retort you could have possibly sassed back.

“Actually, Professor,” you grit, through a clenched jaw, “I was wondering if you could tell me about a Potion that…looks black with silver and gold speckles in it?”

Professor Snape frowns, evidently in thought. After a moment of silence, Snape speaks in his usual, oily tone, “Nyx’s blood. It’s a difficult potion to brew, used as both a narcotic and a healing potion. It also happens to be illegal in the United Kingdom.” Snape arches a thin, black eyebrow in suspicion, “Why would you want to know about Nyx’s blood?”

“Um…” you begin, cursing yourself for not stringing a proper excuse together, “Um, I–”

“Severus!” Hisses a sharp, accented voice from behind you. Snape’s black eyes travel past you and you follow his line of sight, finding Karkaroff at the end of it. Karkaroff glances between you and Snape.

“You may leave, Arden,” Snape drawls, sourly, dismissing you with a scowl. You nod, slinging your book bag over your shoulder and rushing out of the dungeons, exhaling a sigh of relief.

As they promised, Ron, Harry and Hermione are waiting outside for you.

“So, what did Snape want?” Ron pries, softly patting the top of your head. 

“Oh, nothing,” you sigh, “He just wanted to have a word with me about my Potion.”

“How did you think you went with that?” Ron asks, considering you curiously. You shrug.

“Well, I followed everything as per the instructions but it’s Snape so I’m not sure.”

You glance at Harry, who has remained uncharacteristically quiet for most of the day.

“How did you think you went, Harry?” You ask, loud enough to snap him out of his thoughts.

“I botched it,” Harry confesses, though he doesn’t seem too worried about it at all, “I don’t really care, though.”

“Well you should,” Hermione chides, loftily, “Potions is a core subject in our curriculum. If we don’t pass Potions, we lose a huge percentage of our end of year scores.”

“Which means Snape will look bad enough for Dumbledore to finally fire the git,” Ron mutters in your ear, grinning. You snort a laugh and nudge him in the ribs, earning a yelp of surprise.

“You’re trouble, Ronald Weasley,” you murmur back, snickering.

“Arden!”

You pause, Ron, Harry and Hermione stilling, too. A familiar prickle of agitation threads itself beneath your skin as you recognise the familiar voice and wheel around to face him.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” you practically spit, watching as Draco, Crabbe and Goyle saunter towards you. He’s sneering, but there is an indisputable touch of worry in his eyes.

“You,” Draco snips, “Alone without your little guard dogs to defend you.”

His cold, pale eyes dart between Ron and Harry. Ron steps forward.

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Ron snarls, darkly, stretching out a protective arm as if to shield you.

“Funny, I didn’t realise you were her keeper,” Draco snaps, venomously, “Are you really that poor you have to start working for your friends,  _Weasel_?”

Crabbe and Goyle snigger gleefully. You roll your eyes and tap Ron’s arm gently.

“I’ll be fine,” you coo, reassuring both Ron and Harry. They nod in unison.

“I’ll take your book bag,” Hermione offers, and you hand her your bag gratefully, “We’ll see you at dinner.”

You nod and watch them leave, forcing a soft smile onto your lips when Harry glances back at you over his shoulder. You turn back to Malfoy moments later, glowering at him.

“Okay, you’ve got me,” you snip, harshly, “Now, tell me what it is that you want?”

Draco glances behind him at Crabbe and Goyle and flaps a dismissive hand at them, silently shooing them off. They stump away, pushing past other students and knocking frightened First Years aside.

When he’s sure it’s just the two of you, Draco, takes a few steps toward you, bowing his head so he can catch your eyes, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“If it has something to do with Noah Underwood, I don’t want to hear it,” you snap, sternly, “The guy is going through enough as it is, he doesn’t need you to keep snooping around like he’s some sort of criminal-”

“-Will you go to the Ball with me?”

Your lashes flutter rapidly as you blink at Draco once, twice, again. His cheeks are beginning to flush an interesting shade of pink.

“What?”

Draco rolls his eyes, “Don’t make me ask you again, Arden, you  _heard_  me.”

You stare at him quizzically, bemused by his request. Why would Draco want to ask you to the Ball? Was this a prank? A joke? A trick question or a weird way to humiliate you? You frown at him, thinking hard, raking your eyes across every inch of his face and scrutinising him carefully in the low, flickering lights of the dungeons, mind sprinting through a million theories at once until-

Laughter bubbles up your throat on impulse and spills from your lips, echoing through the Dungeons.

Draco blinks, taken aback. 

“Very funny, Malfoy,” you chortle, sighing, and Draco glowers at you.

“This isn’t a joke,  _Arden_!” Draco snaps, angrily.

Your laughter dies on the tip of your tongue when you realise he’s serious and you scoff in cold indignation.

“Why would I want to go to the Ball with  _you_ , Draco?” You spit, coldly, venom dripping from your words, “You seem to relish in bullying me and my friends, particularly Harry. So give me one good reason why I should even consider coming with you when all you are is a jealous, spoilt and arrogant bully with a chip on his shoulder.”

Draco’s eyes glimmer like light bouncing off the tip of a blade. He opens his mouth then closes it, working around words he doesn’t want to say, doesn’t want to give a voice to, before he works his jaw and flares his nostrils and twists his lips into a frown.

“Never mind,” he snarls, bitterly, “I shouldn’t have bothered asking someone who parades around Potter like some loyal, little bitch.”

Before you can give him an angry retort, Draco storms away, fists clenched at his sides as though he wants to smash something.

Who are you kidding?  _You_  want to smash something.

Perplexed and incensed, you march out of the Dungeons and make your way toward the Great Hall for dinner, wondering what the fuck just happened.

* * *

***

After dinner with Hermione, the pair of you wander back to the common room, in which you explain everything that had happened with Malfoy earlier. Hermione had struggled to contain her gleeful giggles as she listened, which was as infuriating as it was embarrassing.

“Malfoy fancies you, (Y/N),” she manages through a bout of giggles, “That’s why he asked you. He’s  _always_  had a soft spot for you.”

“Oh don’t be so silly!” You dismiss her with a slap to her shoulder, “Malfoy was probably just mucking around.”

“But you said-”

“I  _know_  what I said,” you snip, warmth creeping up your neck and spilling across your cheeks, “But Draco Malfoy does not fancy me!”

Hermione bites down on a grin, swallowing the rest of her giggles and slinging an arm across your shoulders, “Whatever you say, (Y/N).”

You and Hermione reach the portrait of the Fat Lady and find her laughing boisterously with her friend, Violet. They both look rather tipsy in their tinsel crowns, faces flushed and words slurred.

“Fairy Lights,” you utter, speaking loudly so that she can hear you over Violet’s loud cackles.

“Aren’t they jus - hic - Magical,” the Fat Lady sighs, and you and Hermione exchanged an amused look as she swings open, admitting you into the common room.

You and Hermione climb through the portrait hole, entering the dim common room and spotting Harry, Ron and Ginny sitting by the fire.

“There they are!” Hermione says, pointing at the two snickering boys and an irritated-looking Ginny.

“Why weren’t you two at Dinner?” You ask, curiously dropping into a seat beside Harry. The two boys don’t seem to hear you, your voice drowned out by their laughter.

“Because - oh shut it, you two - because they both just got rejected by girls they asked to the Ball!” Ginny snaps, shooting a particularly nasty look to Ron and Harry.

You snort a laugh, slapping a hand across your mouth to smother your giggles as Ron glares at Ginny.

“Thanks a bunch, Ginny,” Ron grumbles, sourly, cheeks red beneath his freckles.

“All the good-looking ones taken, Ron?” Hermione snips, smirking bitterly, a touch of sardonic insolence in her tone, “Eloise Midgen starting to look a great deal prettier now isn’t she? Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone  _somewhere_  who’ll have you, it serves you right for being so snotty.”

Usually, Ron would snap back with something snappy. But Hermione’s snide remark seems to slide off Ron, who’s staring at the two of you as though a certain realisation had just dawned on him.

“Hermione, (Y/N), you’re both girls-”

“-Oh well spotted,” Hermione barks, coldly.

“You guys can come with us! Hermione can come with me and (Y/N) can go with-“

“I can’t,” you and Hermione both snap at the same time. You both exchange a glance.

“Why not?” Ron says, impatiently, “Look, Harry and I are going to look really stupid if we don’t find partners - especially Harry-“

“I - we - can’t come with you,” Hermione interrupts, blushing furiously, “Because we - I - am already going with someone!”

“No you’re not!” Ron says, scandalously, “You only said that to get rid of Neville!”

“How dare you, Ron?!” Hermione seethes, her eyes glinting dangerously, “How dare you think that, just because it takes you three years to notice, doesn’t mean no one else has spotted I’m a girl!”

Ron gaped at her in disbelief, before his shock melted into a grin.

“Ok, Fine, you’re a girl we get it.  _Now_  will you come with us?”

Hermione springs to her feet, fists shaking at her sides, “I told you already that I’m going with someone else, and if that’s so hard to believe I suggest that you get over yourself!”

Hermione storms away angrily, stomping up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory.

“Now look what you’ve done!” You snap, glowering at Ron, “She wasn’t lying!”

Ron shakes his head, “Who is she going with then?”

You fold your arms across your chest, glaring at Ron angrily, “She obviously doesn’t want you to know, so I’m not going to tell you.”

Ron rolls his eyes and sighs, “This is getting stupid, Ginny can go with Harry and (Y/N) can come with me-”

“-No, Ron, weren’t you listening?” You snip, icily, “I’m already going with someone.”

You leap to your feet and march toward the winding staircase, intent on pursuing Hermione.

“Wait!” Harry calls out and you pause, wheeling around to face him, “Who-who are you going with?”

You hesitate, biting down on your bottom lip hard before unfurling it, “Cedric. I’m going with Cedric Diggory.”

Not waiting to see their reaction at this news, you spin around and scale the winding staircase, an uncomfortable warmth soaking your cheeks. Why did Ron have to be such a giant prat? He could be so incredibly mean to Hermione at times and completely oblivious to everything around him.

You come to a stop outside of your dorm and knock gently, cracking your knuckles against the wood of the doors.

“Hermione? Can I come in?” You ask, softly, carefully.

“You’d better,” says Hermione’s voice from behind the door, all traces of her anger having already left her voice, “There’s-there’s something here for you…”

Frowning, you pull open the door, spotting Hermione standing in front of your bed.

“Why? What is it-?”

You pause, your words forming an uncomfortable lump in the middle of your throat.

A strange box is sitting on your bed, practically screaming trouble.

“Someone must have brought it up here,” Hermione deduces, studying the box carefully, “It would have taken at least three owls to send it…”

You recognise the signature style all too quickly and your stomach curls in on itself, heart shuddering and throat constricting like a straw.

After weeks of silence, the mysterious sender is back again and it looks like they’ve upgraded from creepy photo to mysterious box.

It’s sitting on your bed like a plain, Pandora’s box, inviting you to open it and unleash a tempest of chaos. You approach it slowly, hesitantly, icy blood gushing through your crystallised veins like Antarctic waters travelling down the deltas of a cold-blooded monster. A part of you needs to see this; it could be clues, a lead, something that could aid you in this impossible investigation. But the other part of you is wary, perhaps even a little afraid, because you’re not sure if you’re prepared to face whatever is in this box.

Either way, you find yourself standing in front of it, peering down at the familiar scrawl written across the top, and you slice the string holding it together, gripping the lid and squeezing your eyes shut so you can muster up every single ounce of your Gryffindor courage, tearing the lid off and-

You gasp.

_Oh._

“What is it?” Hermione asks, mincing hurriedly to your side.

“Oh,” she gasps, “Let’s-Let’s take it out.”

You do, pulling it from the box and holding it out in front of you. Hermione gasps again, raising a hand to cover her mouth.

“It’s beautiful,” she sighs, lips breaking into a smile.

You couldn’t agree more.

The dress is dripping with soft flowers and thin, curling vines, like gold veins running beneath ivory skin. The tulle cascades in soft waves to the floor, flowing through your arms like water. It’s elegant, dainty, feminine and incredibly expensive.

Hurrying to the full-length mirror, you hold the dress to your body, admiring how the style compliments your complexion. White diamonds wink at you from the centre of the dozens of flowers planted on the fabric.

“There’s a note, too!” Hermione exclaims, handing you a folded piece of parchment. You carefully take the letter from her outstretched hand, unfolding it with a smile.

_My Dearest Belle Fiore,_

_Your mother once said that you were the ‘fiore of her life’, and she was right. You were the fiore of her life, and I have watched you blossom into the beautiful rose you are today. I couldn’t be more proud of the young woman you have become, and I will always be proud of you until my dying breath._

_I know your mother would want you to wear this to your first ball; it was her wedding dress. But now, it’s yours, and I’ll know you’ll treasure it as much as the beloved bracelet she bestowed to you._

_I wish I could see you in it but, unfortunately, the Prophet demands my time and energy. But I know you will be the most beautiful fiore in the entire garden, with or without this dress._

_I love you now and always,_

_Papa_

You blink through tears, clutching the letter tightly in your hands.

Your mother had worn  _this_   _dress_ ; her hair had flowed over it, her skin had warmed the delicate fabric and her wild and boundless heart - that heart that could swallow the world -  had hummed beneath it like a hummingbird in her chest.

You clutch the dress a little tighter, embracing it, feeling a new kind of warmth gush through you like butterbeer and sunlight. Its as though your mother is hugging you back, holding you to her chest so you can listen to her hummingbird heart one last time.

In that moment, it’s as though your mother is alive again. 


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are finally at the Yule Ball guys!! Quite a lot of fluff happens in this chapter, and I had a lot planned, so I had to split it into two chapters. I’m already working on Chapter 12 :) I also decided against writing Fleur’s accent because a) it’s too hard and b) it disrupts the flow of the story. Sorry? Thank you for all your comments, they give me life <3

Winters at Hogwarts are the type of winters you find the most beautiful.

The school seems to sparkle from the ground up, blanketed in luxurious clouds of soft, fluffy snow and sprinkled with snowflakes that drip from the sky like angel tears. Sometimes, the winter chill can permeate through your clothes and skin and scrape an icy finger down your spine, and it’s on these days when you prefer to stay curled up beside a log fire with your nose in a good book. But most times, the snowy days and winter nights are a warm reminder of the upcoming festivities. It's these days - when your veins gush with eggnog and butterbeer and the air is perfumed with the scent of warm, sweet cinnamon - that you welcome like an old friend and embrace with all the enthusiasm that the Christmas spirit can muster.

Today is one of those days.

The day had started with presents. A state-of-the-art writing kit from Hermione, an extra large assortment of all your favourite sweets from Ron, a bottle of stupidly expensive perfumed oil from Luke, a very large and itchy scarf from Hagrid (you supposed it would match the deep blue sweater Mrs Weasley knitted for you this year), and a tiny, cute plant from Neville. Your friends at the Newsroom had also bought you small gifts including a photo frame from Colin and a water-coloured painting of Nightshade from Dean.

After the excitement of unwrapping your Christmas presents, you and Hermione met up with Harry and Ron in the common room and head down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Ron, who proudly wears a paper crown, softly pats your head in greeting and drapes a skinny, freckled arm over your shoulders as the four of you step out of the portrait hole.

You exchange a joyful “Merry Christmas,” with the Fat Lady, who giggles gleefully with her friend, Violet, already tipsy and stuffing chocolates into their mouths.

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Ron mutters as the four of you stroll down the hallway.

You shrug, “It’s Christmas, after all.”

Ron shrugs as you both continue to amble lazily down the hallway. Closing your eyes, you sink into the moment, allowing the excitement bubbling up inside of you to overflow. There’s just so much to be happy about; you’re surrounded by your best friends, it’s Christmas and tonight is arguably the most exciting night of the school year; the Yule Ball.

Your eyes flutter when you open them, your lips cracking into a giddy grin as you glance at Harry. He’s murmuring with Hermione, one hand in his pocket while the other fidgets with his glasses. He spots you staring and clears his throat, scratching awkwardly at the nape of his neck. Hermione and Ron glance at each other and Ron unhooks his arm from around your shoulders.

“We’ll catch up with you in a moment,” Harry says to Hermione as she and Ron walk ahead of you.

“What is it, Harry?” You ask, smiling softly.  Harry dips his hand into his pocket to fish out a small box.

“I wanted to give you this myself,” Harry explains, cheeks brushed an adorable shade of pink. He looks so cute like this, all boyish nerves, sheepish and bashful.

Beaming, you take the box from his hand and eagerly unwrap the gift, littering the ground with wrapping paper in your excitement. Harry swoops down to collect the pieces of paper, twisting it nervously as you remove the last of the wrapping paper, revealing your gift.

You gasp, smiling down at a beautiful, diamond pendant, a perfect fit for your charm bracelet. The pendant resembles a snitch, with small golden wings attached to a round diamond that winks up at you, sparkling between your fingers like a morning star. It feels ridiculously expensive in your grasp, gilded with gold and flaunting a pure, white diamond.

“This is...” you trail off, admiring it in the morning light, “Harry this is far too expensive. I-I can’t accept something like this!”

“I want you to have it,” Harry insists, wrapping his hand over yours and curling it around the pendant, “Besides, I’m a millionaire, (Y/N). The youngest in the UK, according to Witch Weekly.”

“You actually read those?” you giggle, arching a mocking brow at him. 

“I kind of dug that hole myself, didn’t I?” Harry chortles, eyes shimmering, “Promise not to tell?” 

“I’ll do you one better,” you smile, raising your free hand and extending your pinky finger, “Pinky promise.” 

Harry hooks his pinky finger around yours and you both laugh, his laugh so carefree and gentle, lips curling into  _that smile,_ the onethat rearranges the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose. His touch lingers on your hand, like he’s not quite ready to let you go, holding onto the moment with warm, loving hands. You’re amazed at how perfectly your hand fits in his, like two pieces of a puzzle sliding snugly together to create a perfect image in your mind.

“Thank you Harry,” you beam, finally pulling away from him, “This-this is absolutely beautiful, I’ll cherish it forever...”

You trail off, staring down at the pendant in your palm. It had been a clear, sparkling diamond before, but now, it’s beginning to change colours; a rich, ruby shade of red bleeding into the white.

“Huh,” Harry frowns down at the pendant, “I didn’t realise it changed colours.”

“Even better,” You grin as you clip your new pendant to your bracelet, rubbing it between your fingers comfortingly. Warmth surges through you at the feeling of the pendant against your skin, a reminder of the boy you love so dearly.

“I’ll think of you whenever I see it,” you beam, kissing Harry on the cheek and looping your arm through his.

Resting your head on his shoulder and sighing, the two of you follow Ron and Hermione toward the Great Hall for breakfast, a contented silence forming between the two of you. The pendant on your bracelet feels slightly heavier than the others, a special weight to it that you can’t quite describe. It makes your heart sing with joy and fills your lungs with sunlit warmth as you soak in the moment, Harry’s presence feeling welcoming and safe.

“I’ve got to ask,” you say, breaking away from Harry’s side as the two of you walk down the stairs, “Why a snitch? I mean, it’s so beautiful and I love it but I’m just curious...”

Harry pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful, as though carefully stringing a reply together. He doesn’t quite meet your eyes when he answers, his hand flying through his hair in that awkward, adorable sort of way that leaves his hair even messier than before.

“Because you’re  _my_  golden snitch,” he explains, slowly, “I see you and I’m so close and you’re right  _there_  but...but when I reach out to grab you, you dart away. Sometimes, I feel like I’ll be chasing you forever, close but not close enough to catch you. And then... other times... I look at you and I think...maybe one day...”

Harry gazes at you, silently studying you.

“I’m not that far away,” you murmur, taking his hand and interlacing your fingers, “I’m always here for you. I always have and I always will.”

Harry flashes a sad smile that makes your heart ache, “I know. Just...not in the way I’d hoped.”

Harry untangles his fingers from yours and jogs down the stairs, leaving you with a strange pang in your chest, like one of your heartstrings snapped in half; a violin string straining beneath an invisible weight. Did Harry mean that he couldn’t approach you? That you weren’t supportive enough?

Suddenly, a cold, prickle of dread threads itself across the top of your scalp, crawls down your spine, settling over you like a curse, a spell, a bad omen. Your breath hitches, caught in your throat, frozen in your lungs.

Someone is watching you.

You spin around, eyes darting as you scan your surroundings, but you can’t spot anyone or anything and the feeling slips away like a ghost in the night, leaving you feeling paranoid and delirious. You swallow thickly and turn, shoving the anxiety that’s rotting your lower belly into a dark corner in your mind as you try to focus on the Yule Ball.

Fiddling nervously with your bracelet, you proceed down the flight of stairs, passing milling students and smiling weakly as they cheerily wish you a ‘Merry Christmas’.  

Are you going insane? Is this little investigation that’s currently come to a dead end the little shove that pushes you over the edge of sanity? It had felt so real and the fact that you had felt it twice before seems to be a strange coincidence.

Because it’s not a coincidence. Someone had been watching you, and then they hadn’t, like shadows crawling across a wall. Someone who moves quickly and silently, stealthy, someone who has been doing it for a while. Invisible? Maybe.

You begin stockpiling mental notes, clipping them in your mind and saving them for later. Right now, you really don’t want to think about a potential stalker. You just want to think about Cedric and your mother’s wedding dress and the Yule Ball.

“Everything alright?” Ron asks you when you sit down next to him, his large hand softly patting your head.

“Yeah,” you shrug, pushing aside your feelings of unease, “I’m fine, just hungry.”

As you begin to pile food on your plate, a loud whoosh of beating wings rolls over the Great Hall, dimming the excited chatter and the scraping  _clang_  of cutlery against plates. Overhead, owls swoop down to deliver letters, hooting and snapping their beaks expectantly. 

“Wow, look at that one,” someone nearby whispers in awe, followed by another murmur of admiration. A few moments later, you spot the owl they’re admiring.

A very large, very beautiful Eagle Owl soars overheard, wings shimmering in the morning light. Unlike most Eagle Owls, this owl is mostly black with droplets of gold dripping over its feathers. It’s beautiful, for sure, majestic and strong and flaunting itself as though it  _knows_  it’s beautiful.

And then it makes eye contact with you and dives rather quickly, stopping just in front of your breakfast.

“Wow,” you whisper in awe, reaching out to stroke his feathers, “You’re a bit of a show-off, aren’t you?”

He - you realise he’s a male - puffs his chest in response and nuzzles his head into your hand. You check the note attached to his foot, untangling the thread and gently pulling it free. Instead of flying away, he clips his beak and cocks his head, large, auburn eyes gazing at you almost lovingly.

You bite your lip as you read the note, scribbled in a familiar, elegant cursive.

_Dear Belle Fiore,_

_It’s about time you received your first owl. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was meant to be yours. He’s very intelligent and has a bit of an ego, but he is also very loyal and an excellent flier._

_Take care of him, and he’ll take care of you._

_Merry Christmas, my sweet fiore._

_All my love,_

_Papa_

“He’s mine,” you grin, folding the note in half again and shoving it into your pocket, “My father bought him for me!”

Hermione and Harry share matching grins as they pat your new owl. Ron looks a little jealous, and you can almost hear his thoughts as he compares Pig to your owl. But you know Ron, to his core, sometimes better than he knows himself and you know that Ron is just as loyal to Pig as Pig is to Ron.

“What are you going to call him?” Harry asks, tickling your owls' feathers.

You stare at your new owl, at his distinct colourings, unique to every other owl you’ve seen, and the name comes to you in a low whisper.

“Atlas,” you beam, and Atlas hoots happily, almost in agreement.

“Atlas,” Hermione echoes, thoughtfully, “I like it!”

Grinning, you feed Atlas chunks of bacon and pieces of toast, patting his feathers gently, your father's written words coming back to you.

_Take care of him, and he’ll take care of you._

* * *

 

 

Atlas remains by your side for most of the morning, even as you sit in the snow watching Hermione build a snowman, he’s perched on your arm, careful not to cut you with his sharp talons as you feed him little treats.  

But Atlas, as beautiful as he is, can’t distract you from the paranoia leaking down the ridges of your spine and the daunting feeling of dread you’d felt when you had sworn someone was watching you. The thought makes your stomach churn with worry, haunting you, as though the eyes hadn’t taken their silent, ominous gaze off you.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” Hermione asks, seriously. You shrug nonchalantly and Hermione pins you with a stern look, “There’s something wrong, I know there is.”

You lower your arm to the ground and Atlas hops off, digging his talons into the snow and giving a low hoot of disapproval, “Earlier today, I could have sworn someone was watching me...”

“When?” Hermione asks, anxiously.

“When Harry gave me his Christmas present and told me I was his ‘golden snitch.’”

Hermione blinks, “His what?”

“His snitch,” you reiterate, cheeks uncomfortably warm, “He bought me a charm for my bracelet and it was a snitch and I asked him why he chose a snitch and - well - he told me that I was like a snitch; close but never close enough for him to catch.”

Your gaze strays toward Harry, who is currently trying to shield himself behind a tree from Ginny’s barrage of snowballs. As if sensing your gaze on him, Harry turns to you, a goofy grin tugging at the corners of his lips, and as you make eye contact, the smile fades. The two of you glance away from each other quickly, blushing.

“But that's beside the point,” you say, quickly, “After he left, I felt someone’s eyes on me and it was...it was frightening...”

“That’s...interesting,” Hermione mutters, brows creased in thought, “How long did the feeling last?”

“Just a few seconds,” you reply, reaching out to scoop a handful of ice and plaster it onto the snowman.

“Hmm. Maybe it was Peeves? He’s been known to do that, he enjoys creeping people out.”

You blink, relief mingling with your worry. You’d never thought of Peeves. It would explain why you wouldn’t be able to spot him and how he moves so quickly. 

But the image doesn’t quite fit with that horrid, icy feeling that had crystallised your veins completely. Still, it’s the only logical explanation, and you bury that uncomfortable, sloshing swirl of anxiety beneath a relieved sigh.

“Yeah, it must have been,” you mutter, non-committal. Right now, you really don’t want to dwell on stalkers or anxiety, all you want to do is think about the upcoming Yule Ball, and your lips split into an excited smile, “Anyway, enough about that. Have you spoken to Victor?”

Hermione flushes, “Yeah. He...bought me some flowers earlier today.”

“Really?!” You gasp, grinning and poking her in the shoulder, “Hermione! You’re supposed to tell me these things!”

Hermione bites her lip sheepishly, cheeks stained a deep, crimson red, “I know, I was going to show them to you! But then...”

Hermione trails off, staring at something behind you. You straighten, dusting the snow from your gloves and glancing over your shoulder.

Luke strides toward you, hands in the pockets of his thick coat, his thick hair poking out from beneath a woollen beanie, and a wicked grin hooked across his lips.

“Lulu!” He calls out to you, breath turning to mist on his lips as he waves at you, “Hey! Looks like you got Adrien’s owl alright...”

When he approaches you, he ropes you into a one-armed hug, his body a furnace of heat as he holds you to his side. Atlas cocks his head and snaps his beak angrily, fluttering up to your shoulder and gripping you possessively.

“Looks like he’s jealous,” Luke laughs, as you extend your arm. Atlas slowly climbs down your arm, careful not to hurt you as you scratch his head reassuringly.

“You don’t have to be jealous,” you whisper, smiling, “You and my cat, Nightshade, are the babies of my heart.”

Atlas hoots happily and leaps off your arm, though not without glaring at Luke. When he hops away, you turn back to Luke, brows raised in mild surprise.

“You knew about Father’s present?”

“Yeah,” Luke shrugs, “He asked me what I think you’d like. I said an owl and he shocked us both by actually listening to me for a change.”

“Wow. You actually had a conversation with our dad without getting into an argument,” you pat Luke’s shoulder, smiling.

“Oh, fuck no. No it ended in a screaming match, it always does when I ask about...” Luke cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath, swallowing the words on the tip of his tongue.

“Oh, Hermione,” he greets with a nod and a wink, “Sorry, I’m being rude. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Luke,” Hermione smiles softly at him, “Enjoy your morning?”

Luke nods, “There was an intense game of wizard chess between myself and Aiden Zabini in the Slytherin common room. The loser had to skinny dip in the Black Lake and touch the Giant Squid.”

“Judging by the lack of water, I’d say you won,” Hermione says, and Luke feigns mild offence.

“Of course I won, Hermione. Your lack of confidence in me is depressing.”

Hermione rolls her eyes and you nudge him in the ribs.

“So, did you just come to annoy us or do you have an actual reason to be here?” You tease, darting away from Luke as he reaches out to ruffle your hair.

“I just wanted to see what you were doing and I wanted to meet your owl,” Luke answers, eyes drifting to the snowman standing still behind Hermione, “Are you two going to introduce me to your new friend or are you both going to continue to be rude?”

You take Luke’s gloved hand and lead him closer to your snowman, “Luke, this is a snowman. Snowman, this is my stupid, older brother.”

“Wait, he doesn’t have a name?” Luke gasps, scandalously, “Every snowman has to have a name!”

“Well, What should we call him?” Hermione asks, a small smile flirting around the corners of her lips, “Since you suggested it...”

Luke bites his lip and stares at the snowman in silent contemplation. It’s then that you realise there’s something not quite right with Luke, different somehow. He seems...energised, bouncing on the balls of his feet as though his shoes were stuffed with springs. Like he could leap off the Astronomy tower and float away.

“So, Luke,” you begin, feeling the way your smirk spreads, “Are you the lucky bloke that scored Cho Chang as your date?”

Luke’s smile falters at its edges and he doesn’t meet your eyes when he answers, “Nah,” he shrugs, “No, I’m going with someone else.”

“Who?” Hermione pries, grinning teasingly.

Luke raises a challenging brow at her, “Guess.”

Hermione folds her arms over her chest and squints. Luke doesn’t tear his gaze away from her, smirking devilishly. Atlas lands on the snowman’s head, scratching curiously.

A look of realisation dawns on Hermione’s face and Luke nods, as if to confirm her silent question. He turns back to the snowman just as Hermione opens her mouth.

“How about  _Icesiah_?” He suggests with a grin, “You know, instead of Isaiah?”

Hermione closes her mouth, lashes fluttering. You roll your eyes and chortle.

“Creative.”

Luke shrugs, “I try.”

“So you didn’t say who you were going to the ball with,” you pry, poking his chest, his shoulder, his cheek. Luke laughs and bats your hand away.

“I told you to guess.”

“You told Hermione to guess,” you giggle as Luke tries to grab you. Atlas hoots protectively and dives between you and Luke.

Luke juts his chin at Atlas, “He should really be up in the Owlery. Owls are nocturnal, y’know.”

Atlas gives an offended hoot at Luke’s suggestion.

“He’s obviously not tired yet,” you snip and Luke shrugs.

Now you can definitely tell what’s different about Luke; The light in his eyes is different, as though his pupils have been sprinkled with flecks of silver and gold. You watch with mingled curiosity and concern as those same eyes, shimmering bright with mischief and something you can’t read, drift to something just past you.

“Looks like someone’s waiting for you,” Luke nods at someone behind you and you follow his line of sight, spotting Cedric standing near the castle, waving at you. You wave back.

“I’ll be right back,” you murmur over your shoulder, leaving Luke and Hermione behind.

The snow crunches beneath your boots, as you approach Cedric, leaving depressions to mark your path. You shrug your coat around you a little tighter, shielding more than just the cold. Your breath crystallises in front of you, plumes of dainty, soft mist, and the air burns when it hits your throat. But you smile anyway when Cedric meets you halfway, beaming as he trudges through the snow toward you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softly.

“Hey,” you breathe, heart soaring.

Golden sunlight streams through his hair, lighting the crown of his head like a halo, an angel of the morning, an angel with no wings. You feel drawn to him, to the way his eyes sparkle, like light dancing on the ocean.

A wingless angel...

“Come for a walk with me?” He asks, offering you his arm.

You bite your lip and glance over your shoulder. Hermione and Luke chat happily as he helps her build Icesiah, one arm bent behind him as the other one pats Icesiahs head. In one fluid action, he smoothly dumps a handful of snow down the back of her coat and Hermione shrieks a surprised laugh.

Nearby, George and Ginny are chasing Ron and Harry, snowballs careening through the air. Harry meets your eyes from across the grounds and there’s a pinch to his mouth and a muscle ticking in his cheek and he doesn’t look jealous, not exactly, just...disappointed, perhaps a little sad. His words from earlier seem to echo in your ears, rattling something deep in your chest.

_Sometimes, I feel like I’ll be chasing you forever, so close but not close enough to catch you..._

You quickly glance away, flashing Cedric what you hope is a warm smile. Sliding your arm under his, you let Cedric take the lead.

(You’d let Cedric lead you just about anywhere)

Atlas fixes Cedric with a warning glare before giving you an affectionate peck on the ear and flying off your shoulder, flapping his large wings deliberately, as though trying to show off to Cedric and Luke.

“So,” He starts, smiling softly as he watches Atlas soar through the air, “Atlas is the newest addition to the Arden family...how is Nightshade feeling about it?”

You bite your lip, “She doesn’t know yet...I hope she doesn’t get too jealous. She’s prone to jealousy.”

Cedric laughs, a burst of warmth that melts the ice in the air, “She should know by now that she’s irreplaceable.”

“I think a part of her does,” you chuckle, “Anyway, how was your morning?”

“Pleasant, actually. My friends and I smuggled a heap of pastries from the kitchens so the whole common room smelt like a French bakery.”

You hum, imagining the rich, sweet scent, “Nice. You guys have the best common room.”

Cedric chortles, “Yeah, we really do.”

The two of you stroll past the Black Lake playing your usual game of twenty questions, laughing and soaking up each other’s company. Somehow, the conversation turns into a snowball fight, though you’re not sure when and how it changed so dramatically (That is - of course - a lie; you don’t think you could ever forget the look of sheer surprise that crossed Cedric's face with you smeared a handful of snow on his head)

And it’s just like a black and white movie, romantic and dreamy, being chased through the snow while Cedric trails close behind you, his Quidditch strength propelling him through the snow as you laugh at him teasingly. And then his arms hook around your waist and he’s spinning you in the air, holding you close, and the orchestra swells into a crescendo and this is the part when the lovers kiss, when they fall into one another when they vow to love one another for all eternity.

But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, he carefully places you on your feet and you step away from him, back pressed up against the bark of a very large, very old Weeping Willow, biting your lip as he steps closer, closer,  _closer,_  tantalisingly close, cheeks flushed a rosy pink and eyes dancing and lips, chapped and soft, bent into a loving smile.

 _‘Pretty boy’_ someone - Luke, maybe - had once said, and yes, he certainly is handsome but Cedric Diggory is so much more than just that and it shows in the way that he gazes at you like you’re the only star in his sky.

“Um,” Cedric hedges boyishly, glancing shyly at you, “I have something for you...”

You smile up at him in surprise as you accept the box, the cool silver biting into your gloved fingertips. The box alone is stunningly beautiful; an intricate, floral design carefully carved into the glinting silver, like something stolen from an Emily Bronte book. You slide your fingers over the smooth, cool surface and open it.

You gasp.

Sitting inside the silver box, cushioned on velvet, is a beautiful necklace. A small fire lily hangs from a delicate white-gold chain and in the centre of the petals is a small sapphire, winking up at you. The sentimentality of the pendant doesn’t go by unnoticed; the first time you met Cedric, he had tucked a fire lily behind your ear in an effort to cheer you up.

“Cedric,” you whisper, faintly, “This is...stunning...”

“You like it?” Cedric asks, ducking his gaze to catch yours.

“I love it,” you correct, launching yourself into his arms, hugging him around the neck and breathing in the scent of sandalwood and rich honey and  _Cedric_ , like you can inhale him and trap him inside your lungs forever.

Cedric laughs in surprise before his arms fold around your waist, holding you flush against him, lips pressed to the crown of your head. You close your eyes and sigh, nestling into him, his arms a crystal-clean oasis in the middle of a thousand-mile desert, and you don’t want to let go, not now, not ever.

After a long moment, Cedric breaks away, his smile lighting up the sun. You bite down on a grin, giggling with joy and holding the necklace up.

“Would you mind...?” You trail off, tongue sliding across the tip of your canine tooth as your lips break into a smile.

“Of course,” Cedric grins, gently taking the necklace as you turn your back to him, sliding off your coat and shuddering against the cool wind.

There’s a sense of hesitation lingering in the air as he steps toward you, his breath hot and silky on your shoulder, and your breath hitches, frozen behind your tonsils as you feel the flutter of his hand, warm, gentle and unassuming. His finger trails up the bend of your spine like following the roads on a map, tickling the hair at the nape of your neck as he drapes the necklace around your neck. His fingers ghost across your collarbone, touch dancing on cool skin, as though he were carefully connecting constellations on your skin.

Clamping down on your quivering bottom lip, you slowly turn to him, showing off the necklace hugging your neck.

“Thank you,” you whisper, fingers reaching up to slide a gentle finger over the pendant. Cedric flashes a radiant smile and his eyes dip to your fingers, following a path down your chest and up again.

“Beautiful,” Cedric breathes, drinking you in like milk and honey, his tongue flicking over the cushion of his lower lip, “You are absolutely beautiful.”

Your cheeks glow with warmth at the intensity of his gaze, like he’s admiring a piece of fine art. There’s something contagious in the way he stares, something that splutters in your lower belly, molten-hot and warming your entire body.

Static crackles in the air.

Laughter echoes in the distance.

And - just like that - Cedric shakes himself out of his thoughts, that strangely magnetic and equally disarming hunger swallowed up by the Cedric you’re so familiar with.

“You must be cold,” he states, rushing to wrap your coat over your shoulders. His arm brushes against yours and your breath catches in your throat.

“Thanks,” you murmur, glancing at him through your lashes.

If there is one thing that you learned today, it is that you love Cedric Diggory in any shape and form, but especially when he’s hungry.

* * *

 

 

You suppose there is a bit of humour in the fact that everything you’re wearing right now has been given as a gift to you.

Cedric's necklace, sitting pretty around your neck, sparkles and winks at your reflection. Your mothers' wedding dress cascades off your skin, waves of tulle and silk pooling around your feet. The warm glow of the dormitories candlelight glints off the white diamonds planted carefully in the centre of soft petals, shimmering like the dressmaker had stolen stars from the sky and stitched them into the skin of the dress.

You and Hermione had to make adjustments to the wedding dress, as the train was two metres long and there were several layers of tulle that probably would have frightened Cedric into believing he was actually marrying you. And, though you had entertained that fantasy in a million different scenarios, scaring your date off was not something you wanted to do for your first ball.

Anticipation climbs up your throat and inches itself across your lips into a smile as your hands grasp a handful of the delicate fabric of your dress and rub it between your fingers.

“You look beautiful,” Hermione coos, beaming at you. She looks as though she may cry.

You bite down on a girlish giggle, fingers playing with Cedric’s necklace as you turn to face Hermione.

“Don’t you dare cry,” you warn, pointing a shaky finger at her, “If you start crying, I’ll start crying and we’ll both be a snotty mess.”

Hermione snorts a laugh, shaking her head as you gather the delicate material in your hands and step toward her, looping your arms around her and hugging her.

“You look so gorgeous, Hermione,” you whisper into the shell of her ear, “You’ll be turning heads and breaking hearts for sure.”

The two of you break away and she laughs.

“ _Me_?  _You’re_  the prettiest girl in school. If anyone is going to turn heads and break hearts, it’s you.”

You playfully nudge her shoulder with your own, rolling your eyes and barely managing to smother the flush of warmth crawling up your neck.

“We both look fucking sexy,” you grin, raising your chin and unfurling your spine, “Lets knock ‘em dead!”

Hermione throws her head back in a laugh and the two of you loop arms, gliding down the stairs of the girls dormitory toward the common room.

“You’re meeting Victor outside the Entrance Hall, yeah?” You ask and Hermione nods, giving you a questioning look.

“Same,” you breathe, nervous energy suddenly spilling into your lower gut. You sigh, breath trembling on your lips.

Hermione squeezes your hand.

“You look beautiful,” Hermione murmurs, flashing you a reassuring smile, “He’s going to love you even more than he already does. Trust me.”

You chew anxiously on your bottom lip, taking a deep breath in and exhaling shakily, faintly, as you enter the common room and step out of the portrait hole.

People stop to stare when you and Hermione walk past. It’s strange, unnerving, grating - really - gapes and whispers following you as you and Hermione head toward the Entrance Hall. It makes your stomach curl in mingled self-consciousness and embarrassment and maybe a little bit of pride because yes, this is your mothers dress, and yes it was as beautiful as she was, as though she had taken some of her beauty and stitched it into the gown and a part of you is anxious about what Cedric will think but the other part - the other part that  _knows_  him, that  _loves_  him - is  _excited_.

Finally, you and Hermione arrive at the top of the stairs to the Entrance Hall. You spot Cedric and Victor chatting in light conversation and Hermione bleats a nervous laugh.

“Well, here it goes,” she chuckles and you squeeze her hand one last time before letting go.

Taking one careful step at a time, the two of you slowly descend the stairs. Cedric slants a glance at you and then he does a double take.

His eyes widen, jaw-dropping.

Your heart flutters, takes flight,  _soars_.

Cedric gazes at you as though he’s just stepped into a daydream, caught in a trance, his eyes never leaving yours. He seems to have forgotten how to breathe, feet rooted to the spot, like a moonstruck groom at the end of the aisle, watching his blushing bride glide toward him. And - maybe ten years from now - this exact scenario might unfold but in a different setting. For now, all you can focus on is this moment, this very important bookmark in time. 

He meets you at the base of the stairs, rushing forward as though pulled to you by some invisible, magnetic force.

“Wow,” He murmurs, eyes sweeping over you hungrily, not sure where to look first, “You look - I mean - you are - absolutely s-stun-beautiful.  _Angelic_.”

Warmth flares in your cheeks, “It’s the dress...And the necklace.”

Cedric licks his lips, shakes his head, “No. it’s you. You are...you are  _exquisite_.”

Your tongue laves across your bottom lip, and that same hunger leaks into Cedric's eyes as he follows the movement and it’s thrilling and it’s  _disarming_  and it’s so unlike the Cedric the world knows and maybe that’s what makes it  _so damn beautiful._

“(Y/N)?”

You’re yanked out of your trance by a familiar voice and you turn, finding Luke standing behind you.

“Holy shit,” he curses, standing back to admire you, “You-you look...” a pained expression flits across his face, eyes misty, “...you look like - like  _her_. Like _mum.”_

Eyes welling with tears, you throw yourself into Luke’s arms and he holds you close for a long moment. You break away, blinking back the tears wanting to roll down your cheeks and Luke beams proudly at you.

“She’d be so proud of you, y’know,” he murmurs, voice husky and low.

You nod, lips pressing together to stop yourself from crying, “She’d be proud of you, too.”

“Excuse me, but who are you?” A French, frilly voice snips sharply from behind you. You break away from Luke, finding Fleur Delacour standing behind you. Her arms are crossed over her chest, silvery hair flowing over her shoulders. She looks beautiful, even though her expression is pinched into a look of slight jealousy.

“Oh, right, you two haven’t officially met,” Luke says, shaking his head, “So, Fleur, this my little sister, (Y/N). (Y/N), this is Fleur, my date.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief, “Your  _date_?”

Luke furrows his brows, “Don’t sound so shocked, you’ll offend Fleur. She’s more than worthy to be my date.”

Fleur rolls her eyes and prods him in the ribs with the sharp edge of her elbow, “I’m doing you a favour.”

Luke bends down and kisses her cheek, “And I’m just joking, of course. I feel like the luckiest boy in the world right now.”

“That’s because you are,” you retort, earning a chortle from Fleur. She smiles, and it seems to glow as though she’s bathed in moonlight. 

“So, you’re Luke’s little sister,” Fleur says, her eyes glittering.

 _“Unfortunately,”_  you tease in French, the accent rolling off your tongue, and Fleur gives a surprised laugh.

 _“I have a little sister too,”_ she replies in French, and you can tell she’s trying to fight back a proud grin,  _“She’s back in France.”_

_“Do you think she’ll come over for the second and third task?”_

_“I hope so,”_  Fleur sighs, just as Professor McGonagall claps for everyone’s attention.

Students begin to stream into the Great Hall, leaving just the four champions and their dates. Realising what’s going on, you turn back to Fleur, who’s startling blue eyes are already on you.

 _“It’s a pleasure to meet you_ , (Y/N),” she smiles at you, taking Luke’s arm as he finishes a murmured conversation with Cedric.

 _“You too, Fleur,”_ you grin, already imagining Ron’s face when you tell him you’ve actually had a proper conversation with Fleur Delacour.

Fleur tugs Luke away by the elbow, who seems reluctant to end his conversation with Cedric. As you wait for them to finish up, you spot Harry stealing glances at you and your breath hitches. He seems to be struggling to keep his eyes off you, fighting hard with a jelly-like resolve. You flash him a small smile and wave and Harry turns away.

When Luke and Fleur leave to line up in front of the procession Professor McGonagall ordered, you cock your head at Cedric and give him a careful slide glance.

“What was that about?” You whisper, sliding your arm under his, and Cedric shakes his head dismissively.

“Nothing,” he reassures, though there is an adorable, moon crescent furrow in his brow.

“Alright, is everyone ready?” Professor McGonagall asks.

There are a couple of nods and murmured answers and Professor McGonagall spins on the clunky heel of her Mary Janes, striding toward the large, wooden doors.

You shoot Hermione a nervous glance over your shoulder, to where she stands behind you, and she grins nervously.

Professor McGonagall pushes the doors open.

Your breath hitches.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I really can’t believe I posted this so quickly. I had it done in less than one day and now it’s ready for you and I’ve already started writing the next chapter for Young gods and holy shit wowowow. Thank the new meds. Now, this is starting to get dark my dudes I’m warning you now it may get a lil creepy. well, creepy to me anyway and i'm a dumb bitch so it might not be as creepy as it is in my head but anyway. just a warning. 
> 
> TW: Drug abuse and make out sesh but nothing explicit. The main one here would be the drug use bit. I don't endorse drug abuse AT ALL, but I do sympathise with drug addicts or addicts in general.

Draco Malfoy has a staring problem.

You can feel his prickly ice-blue eyes pinned on you, stalking you with a borderline dangerous gaze that screams ‘ _see me_ ’ in what is simultaneously a shattering roar and a shivering whisper. On its own, it rankles unnervingly,  _obnoxiously,_ like everything else he does. But you don’t let it grate you, because it’s  _Malfoy_ , and knowing him, he’s probably planning all the ways he can kill you with a plastic fork.

Right now, you don’t want to think about Malfoy or his penetrative stare or what it means. And you don’t, because Cedric Diggory is the only thing you see, the only thing you  _want_  to see, the only thing you  _need_  to see.

His cheeks are flushed a soft, pink hue and his smile lights up the sun, radiant, warm, a benevolent curve of his lips. His eyes remain fixed on you, they have been for the entire night, and they’re bright, shimmering,  _dazzling_. You could get drunk off the cerulean rivers in his eyes.

The Weird Sisters finish their fifth song of the evening, and you and Cedric break apart for the first time since hitting the dance floor, panting and grinning.

“I’ll go get some drinks,” Cedric winks, planting a tender kiss to your cheek.

Sighing happily, you practically float across the floor to the fringes of the dance floor, grinning goofily as you wait for Cedric to bring you your drink.

Aside from Draco’s sleazy, lingering eyes, you’ve actually had a wonderful night. Dinner was delicious and enjoyable;  The champions and their dates sat at a large, round table and you were seated between Cedric and Hermione and opposite Harry. You, Hermione, Cedric and Victor had a very intriguing conversation about the differences between Hogwarts and Durmstrang. The best part of the conversation, though, had been when Cedric casually draped an arm across the back of your seat and shuffled closer.

“Arden,” a cold voice drawls from behind you, breaking through your thoughts with all the brute strength of a sledgehammer.

Anger sears the cushion of your veins, not unlike sunburn, as you bite the inside of your cheek and turn, immediately regretting it.

Malfoy is standing just behind you, eyes still staring hungrily at you,  _through_  you, like the sharp tip of a hot poker piercing through your muscle and skin.

“You do know it’s rude to stare,” you snap, scathingly, “I could feel your eyes on me all night. It’s creepy and you should stop.”

Draco’s nostrils flare.

“Contrary to what your tiny, self-centred mind may believe, you are not the centre of the universe,” he barks, and then smooths down the front of his robes, grappling for his composure. Sighing through his nose, he straightens, “I wasn’t staring at you.”

You roll your eyes, already wishing this conversation was over, wishing it never began.

“Whatever you have to say, just hurry up and say it,” you snip, trying to compose yourself.

Draco fixes his emerald green tie, squaring his shoulders, “I just wanted to say that – that you look...tolerable... I mean, I barely find you tolerable in the first place but-but what I’m saying is-you’re not a – a complete eyesore...tonight.”

Momentarily speechless, all you can do is glare at Draco as he splutters awkwardly through an attempt at a compliment, not quite meeting your eyes. You dig sharp nails into the fabric of your dress when you realise he’s finished and work your jaw. 

“You marched all the way over here and wasted three minutes of our lives to give me a back-handed compliment?”

Draco pauses, expression neutral, “Yes.”

“Wow,” you scoff, harsh and venomous and stinging the back of your throat, “You really are the most arrogant, narcissistic asshole I have ever met.”

With a final, nasty glare, you spin around on the sharp point of your heel and stomp away from him, already trying to squeeze the entire conversation into the furthermost corners of your memory, when he suddenly blurts your name, like he hadn’t mean’t to. You freeze as his footsteps click across the floor, approaching you quickly, and then his voice is in your ear.

“Your fathers here,” he murmurs, his breath hot and heavy on your shoulder, “He just arrived a few minutes ago.”

You work your jaw, crossing your arms over your chest, “Where is he?”

“Just outside, in the Entrance Hall.”

Unfolding your arms, you begin to stalk away from Malfoy before some invisible force forces you to stop.

“Thanks,” you mutter over your shoulder and, without turning to see his reaction, you leave him behind, his breath still ghosting across your skin.

_Well, that was odd._

You mutter soft apologies as you pass loitering students, heading toward the Entrance Hall. But before you can even reach them, your father strides past the threshold, eyes wandering around the Great Hall in a mingled sense of regret and reminisce. His gaze finally falls on you and his expression shifts to one of awe and pride and a sharp dash of a grin slices across his lips at the sight of you. 

“(Y/N),” he greets and a small smile tugs playfully at the corners of your lips, “Wow...You look exactly like your mother...Beautiful.”

You grin, “What are you doing here?”

Your father brandishes a large piece of parchment and his legendary, eagle-feather quill. You give an understanding ‘ah’ and nod.

“Work never sleeps,” he explains, flashing a grin, “And neither do I.”

“But why not send another journalist like Kaitlyn or Aaron?” You ask, curiously, “Why does the Editor and Chief of the Daily Prophet have to come to the Yule Ball?”

Your father’s eyes twinkle, “I wanted to see you.”

“(Y/N)?” You hear Cedric's voice somewhere behind you and turn, beaming at him.

Cedric holds two large mugs of butterbeer in his hands as he approaches, suddenly looking both nervous and intrigued. He hands one to you and offers the other to your father. You swallow your laughter, a teasing smile tickling your lips.

“Papa, this is Cedric,” you begin, gesturing to Cedric, “Cedric, this is my Papa, Adrien Arden.”

Your father's sharp eyes narrow shrewdly on Cedric, studying carefully, micro-managing and cataloguing mannerisms, judging and determining with all his carefully honed problem-solving skills. Unlike most men, however, Cedric doesn’t wither beneath the intimidating stare of your father. Instead, Cedric extends his hand, offering a firm handshake.

They shake hands, and - strangely - it doesn’t feel as awkward as you imagined this kind of thing would be.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir,” Cedric smiles politely, and your father arches a brow, “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope?” Your father retorts.

“Of course,” Cedric says, smoothly, “They’re the only things I care about.”

“Good answer,” your father commends, flashing his signature smirk, “I see my daughters chosen well.”

Your cheeks feel hot and itchy as a blush prickles beneath your skin, “Papa...”

“I’m just saying,” your father chortles, “I’m a pretty good judge of character and I can tell Cedric is...one of the good ones.”

“You flatter me,” Cedric grins, bashfully.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” your father remarks, eyes glinting like he’s enjoying this verbal spar with a boy who is unfamiliar with his ways, “Just an honest observation.”

As Cedric and your father continue their conversation, you spot Hermione, Ron and Harry at a nearby table and excuse yourself, a skip in your step as you approach them.

“ _Don’t call him Vicky_!” Hermione snaps, shrilly, springing from her seat and storming off, just as you arrive.

You shoot Ron a cold glare and Ron gives a derisive scoff that sears the back of his throat.

“What did you say?” You ask, slowly, and Ron folds his arms across his chest mulishly.

“You’re no better than she is,” Ron snarls, viciously, “Running off with Cedric Diggory and siding with the competition.”

You bunch your fingers up into white-knuckled fists at your side, nails digging into your palms.

“I can’t believe you, Ronald,” you growl, “You should know better than anyone that neither of us would betray Harry like that! You’re being just as petty as Malfoy right now and that’s saying something!”

With that, you wheel around and follow Hermione, blood boiling. You really can’t believe Ron right now. Whatever it was that had wiggled beneath his skin did not have to be reflected on you and Hermione, and you were certainly not going to let it ruin such a beautiful evening.

Cedric's eyes follow you as you pass him, lingering longingly on your back as you exit the Great Hall, scanning the Entrance Hall. Lovestruck couples tuck themselves against the corners of the Hall, coated in shadows as they giggle and kiss. You cringe, pacing past them and entering the courtyard.

“Hermione?” You call out, voice slicing through the still, cold air.

“She went that way,” an apathetic, masculine voice utters.

You nibble on your bottom lip, recognising the voice immediately as you turn to face him and glance in the direction he’s pointing in.

“Thanks, Noah,” you flash an awkward, appreciative smile, “Why aren’t you at the Ball?”

“You really asking me that question, Arden?” Noah scoffs, black eyes glinting in the darkness. His thumb slides across the battery pack of his camera as he leans casually against the wall. Beside him, a large raven cocks her head at you, scrutinising you with a dark, beady gaze.

You raise your chin, straightening your spine, “It’s a reasonable question.”

Noah gives another indignant scoff, “Look at me, Arden. Do I look like the type of person to go to the wizard equivalent of a school dance?”

You sweep an appraising look over Noah’s tall, thin frame. He’s still wearing his oversized Aviators jacket over the top of his black v-neck and the same pair of ripped, black jeans. His signature black beanie is pulled snugly over the black curls of his thick hair, making you wonder if he had been born wearing it.

“You might surprise yourself,” you say, finally, shuddering against a cool burst of winter air.

Noah barks a sharp, mirthless laugh, “Nothing can surprise me anymore, Arden.”

You huff a disbelieving laugh, “Alright, well, don’t let me interrupt your little ‘I’m-too-aesthetically-punk-for-fun’ act.”

Noah pushes himself off the wall and his bird squawks a complaint.

“Sorry, Nyx,” He murmurs, fishing a small piece of bread from his pocket and popping it into her beak. She swallows it appreciatively.

“So, this is your pet bird,” you jut your chin at his Raven, whose head swivels around to you at the sound of your voice as though you had rudely interrupted something very important.

“Yeah,” Noah snips, shortly, “I found her when she was a chick. Her mother pushed her out of the nest and left her to die. I took her in and she’s been loyal to me ever since.”

You approach her gingerly, “You named her Nyx, right? After the Greek goddess of the night?”

Noah gives you that almost-sideways glance, the one that is as intriguing as it is unnerving, “She named herself, (Y/N).”

You frown at Noah, confused by how a bird could name herself, but decide against commenting on it.

“She’s pretty protective,” you smirk, thinking back to the glorious moment she attacked Malfoy, “You should have seen the way she clawed Malfoy’s face when he touched your book bag.”

Noah’s smirk flickers across his lips, “I did.”

“What?” You blurt, your brows furrowed in confusion, “But you weren’t there?”

“I was,” Noah grins, eyes glittering, “You just couldn’t see me.”

You give him a questioning look and Noah sighs, “Malfoy’s been stalking me for months, asking questions and shoving me around a little, going through my things, doing whatever it is that Malfoy does to make up for his general lack of competence...”

(You snort a laugh at that, grinning as you imagine Ron and Harry’s reaction to Noah’s snide remark)

“...So I used a little trick on him to throw him off the tracks, mess around with him for a bit. I never expected Nyx to attack him, though.”

Nyx gives a shrill warble and Noah strokes her feathers. You reach out to mimic him but Noah grips your hand and shakes his head.

“Oh,” you gasp, shocked by the sudden warmth of Noah’s hand.

“She doesn’t like anyone but me patting her,” he warns, eyes like silky pools of black ink.

“Okay,” you breathe, faintly, “You can let go of my hand now.”

Noah quickly releases your hand and your fingers instinctively reach for your bracelet, fiddling with Harry’s pendant. Clearing your throat, you iron the front of your dress with your palms.

“I’d better go find Hermione,” you say, quickly, “Make sure she’s okay. Ron has a way of upsetting her.”

Noah nods, not meeting your eyes as he speaks in a soft whisper, a gentle breath nearly lost to the winter breeze.

“Well, we all have things that find a way to get under our skin.”

Deciding not to answer him, you give a wordless nod and leave, shaking off the strange feeling Noah’s words had given you.

_We all have things that find a way to get under our skin_

What a strange thing to say, you muse, brows creased in thought, but you decide not to dive head first into the psychological workings of Noah Underwood’s paradoxical mind. You could spend a lifetime trying to figure him out and realise by the end of it that you haven’t learnt anything about him. 

Instead, you shrug your outer cloak around your shoulders, blocking out the cold as you mince through the courtyard, ignoring the eerie feeling in your gut. After five minutes of brisk pacing, you finally find Hermione, sitting on the steps overlooking the snow-capped grounds and Hagrid’s Hut.

Your heels snap out a sharp staccato as you approach her, slowly, hesitantly, unsure if she’s ready to talk.

“Hermione?” You ask, softly, and Hermione sniffs, glancing at you over her shoulder.

“Hey,” She croaks, voice raspy and sad.

“Hey,” you parrot back, tucking your dress beneath you as you take a seat beside her, “Feeling better?”

Hermione shrugs, “I guess. I’m just so sick of Ron trying to ruin everything I try to do.”

You rest a warm hand on hers as you gaze out onto the landscape, taking in the moonlit scenery.

“He doesn’t  _actively_  try to ruin it,” you murmur after a brief pause, “He’s just got a bad temper, especially when he’s jealous.”

Hermione sighs, “Well he wouldn’t be if he had just...asked me.”

You hum in agreement, “I think the boys would be in a better spot if they just listened to us in the first place.”

“We should just ditch them and move into Hagrid’s Hut,” Hermione sniffles, thoughtfully.

You chortle, resting your head on Hermione’s shoulder and gently squeezing her hand, “Like we ditched Cedric and Victor?”

Hermione laughs, “Oh my gosh, we  _did_  ditch them, didn’t we?”

“They’ll live,” you murmur, nuzzling into your best friend. She giggles, resting her head on yours.

“I love being your best friend,” she says, the smile on her lips curving her words.

“Likewise,” you mutter in agreement, closing your eyes, “By the way, I saw Noah on the way here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We had our first conversation in - like - two months.”

“Huh,” Hermione says in slight surprise, “Well, I guess he didn’t find it necessary to talk to you, given that you called off the investigation.”

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, “Yeah. I guess...”

A contented silence lapses between the two of you as you sit on the stone steps, listening to the distant thump of music and chatter. Just ahead of you, you spot several figures ambling around in the snow, chasing each other and laughing jovially.

“Is that Luke?” Hermione asks, frowning as she squints at the closest figure, who has a lazy arm slung across a smaller figure.

As though hearing Hermione, the figure nearby whirls around and you realise that it is, in fact, Luke.

“Oh, hey guys!” He waves buoyantly as he steers a giggling Fleur toward the two of you, voice booming across the grounds. Fleur bursts into a fit of hysterical laughter when Luke trips, staggering comically.

“What the-?” You begin as Luke and Fleur come to a stop just in front of you, “Luke, are you drunk?”

“He’s more zan just drunk,” says a husky voice from somewhere beside you.

Kaz Volkov emerges from the thick shadows, moonlight combing through his dirty-blond hair and bouncing off his steel-cold eyes, pale and lean and sharp and the same kind of beautiful that Tom Riddle had been once, a very long time ago.

Kaz is wearing no outer cloak or dress robes. Instead, he’s wearing a white dress shirt, tucked into black pants and sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing the rippling veins of his forearms. The top three buttons are undone, teasing a glimpse at the chiselled chest beneath it. The black waistcoat buttoned up over the top of it restores a businesslike look to him. You briefly wonder how he isn’t cold, but realise that maybe he’s enjoying it.

“Pay attention to his eyes,” Kaz drawls, stepping closer to you in one long-legged stride.

You spring to your feet, taking a surreptitious step away from him, trying not to let on the fact that Kazimir Volkov is casually wrecking just about every last iron clad, Gryffindor-worthy nerve in your being.

“He’s high,” Hermione states, and you drag your gaze away from Kaz and back to Luke, who is now spilling lazy kisses along Fleur’s neck, down to her collarbone. She gives a throaty moan and tugs him closer.

Kaz clicks his tongue, “Higher zan Mt Olympus itself.”

You frown, biting down hard on the tip of your tongue, “Luke!”

Luke reluctantly tears himself away from Fleur and sighs, staring at you.

That’s when you see it.

The look you had seen earlier, the one that had made his pupils look like inky pools of obsidian, has now leaked into the white of his eyes, coating his eyes completely in a shade of ominous, otherworldly,  _paranormal_  black. Small flecks of gold and silver float within the depths of those terrifyingly black eyes, and you realise with a sudden shock why it looks so familiar.

“Nyx’s blood,” you hear yourself murmur, “S-Snape said it was an illegal narcotic,” you turn to Kaz, shooting him an accusing glare, “You gave it to him. I saw you!”

Kaz chortles huskily, “Zere’s nothing wrong vith supplying people vith medicine zey need.”

“But it’s not medicine, is it?” Hermione snaps, hotly, “It’s drugs, and it’s illegal.”

Kaz scoffs condescendingly, “Luke vas in pain, I gave him something to help, and now he’s happy.”

“What do you mean he was ‘in pain’?” You ask, glancing at Luke in concern. Luke’s gone back to kissing Fleur, his arms hooked around her waist as she wraps her arms around his neck. Your heart sinks horribly, stomach curling in on itself.

“You have no idea, do you?” Kaz says, his voice rippling with a fleeting hint of  wonder and disdain, “What Luke has been through, what Luke is  _going_  through?”

You blink rapidly, swallowing your discomfort, trying not to fidget with your bracelet too obviously, “You don’t have to tell me what Luke has been through, I  _know_  what he’s gone through.”

“Vell, zen, you should understand,” Kaz points out, “More zan anyone-”

A soft thump cuts Kaz off and you swivel around to where Luke has Fleur pinned against the wall. You and Hermione exchange a grimace. Kaz chortles amused.

“One of perks of Nyx’s blood is zat it tricks brain into releasing  _double_  the amount of oxytocin and endorphins,” Kaz explains, eyes glittering “Meaning your orgasms are guaranteed to be stronger, longer,  _better_ , regardless of how experienced your partner is.”

He takes a deliberate step forward, “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you (Y/N)? You’re still a virgin, I can tell. And I like virgins. They’re like sugar cubes; sweet and pure until they  _dissolve_  into a sugary mess on my tongue.”

A disgusted noise issues from the back of Hermione's throat as your expression twists into a cringe. You step back from him, bumping into Hermione. Kaz laughs.

“It’s just for tonight,” Kaz says in low laugh, “He’s not addicted. Just searching for something to heighten entire experience. I’m taking kare of zem all, making sure zey don’t get up to too much trouble. See, zey make you feel invincible. Zey make you feel like  _young gods_.”   
  


“-Woah,” you hear Luke mutter and you turn just as he stumbles backwards. And then, you witness one of the strangest, most terrifying things you’ve ever seen.

Long, thick strands of molasses-like tears stream down Luke’s face as he stares at something ahead of him, rolling down his cheeks, over his jaw, down his neck, staining his skin black. You gasp, throwing a panicked look at Kaz, who raises a reassuring hand.

“What’s happening?” Hermione asks, shrilly.

“He’s peaking,” Kaz explains, casually, “It’s just body’s response to drug. Ze black tears vill stop vithin few minutes, but he’ll ride high for the rest of the night, possibly into next morning.”

Fleur sighs, her cheeks stained with black as she begins her peak. You realise that Luke must have done this last night, which was why he was so... _happy_...this morning.

You point a razor-sharp glare at Kaz, ignoring Luke and Fleur’s soft moans of ecstasy.

“Listen, Kazimir,” you growl, storming forward and mustering every ounce of courage you can find, “You make sure you look after my brother. And don’t you dare let him poison himself again. If Luke needs help, he should be getting it from somewhere else, not from you and your little potions kit.”

Kaz scoffs, the sound harsh and metallic and clanging uncomfortably in your ear. He opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by Cedric's voice, who calls out to you from some distance.

“(Y/N)?”

Kaz narrows his eyes, his gaze lethal, and then he takes another gracefully decisive step forward, neatly eliminating the entirety of the space you had tried to reclaim as your own.

“You’d better rrun off to your little boyfriend now,  _krasotka_. He might get wrong idea.”

Hermione tugs lightly on your sleeve, a silent warning, a secret code tapped out into a rhythm you’ve come to learn well.

Without another word, you let Hermione steer you away from Kaz, who smirks lazily at you as you leave. It curls around his lips like a smoke signal, sparking a confusing miscellany of contempt and curiosity and heat in the pit of your stomach because Kaz Volkov is bad news but there’s an element to him that doesn’t necessarily make him evil, just misunderstood.

Or maybe you’re giving him the benefit of the doubt, which you usually do, generously, sometimes to people who don’t deserve it.

And you’re not quite sure if Kazimir Volkov deserves it.

* * *

 

 

“I think my brothers becoming addicted to drugs.”

Cedric doesn’t say anything at first, aside from a blank, slightly disbelieving stare. You don’t expect him too; it’s deeply personal and everyone’s image of Lukas Arden is quite different to the one you’d just witnessed. But he still places one gentle, warm hand on the small of your back while the other one grips the balcony of the Astronomy tower, the place you find yourself standing in while you process everything you’ve just seen.

“How do you know he’ll become addicted?” Cedric finally asks, softly.

“It’s Nyx’s blood,” you answer, simply, “Nyx’s blood is highly addictive.”

“Only to those who let it,” Cedric remarks, sagely, “You know, addiction is something a person is born with. People are more liable to addiction than others, which is why it’s harder for some to give up certain habits. But your brother? He’s stronger than that. Tonight, he’s looking for some kicks. Tomorrow, he’ll go back to being one of the brightest kids in school.”

You gaze up at Cedric, the worry slowly leaking out of you, as though he had punctured some sort of the bubble sitting uncomfortably in your lower belly and liquid anxiety is cascading down your legs.

“You’re right,” you finally sigh, rubbing your bracelet nervously, “You’re absolutely right. Luke is-he’s smarter than that.”

Cedric rubs soothing patterns into your back, kneading them into your spine. Your whole body relaxes under his ministrations, knots of worry being stretched out wafer-thin. But your mind still churns, spirals, spins. What if drugs become his crutch to carry him through whatever feelings he’s burdened with? Why didn’t he just tell you? Why didn’t he come to you?

As though reading your thoughts, Cedric gently taps your lower back with his thumb.

“But...?” He prompts, eyes gentle and patient and you release another heavy sigh.

“But Luke is...” you trail off, trying to find the right words as though they were written in the stars above you.

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” Cedric soothes but you shake your head, frowning.

“No, I want to,” you say, and Cedric flashes you a small smile. Trying not to get distracted by it, you continue, “See Luke he-he’s had it particularly rough. He watched our mum die and it’s...its traumatised him. And then he had to raise me on his own while he was still a kid because dad just...just abandoned us and that’s something that Luke shouldn’t have had to do. He should have been allowed to grieve and move on like I did because I had the chance too. But Luke...he shoved it down somewhere deep inside of him and every time I try to pry it open he shuts me out.”

Cedric nods, expression thoughtful, “He’s still trying to protect you.”

Your fingers tighten on a bead on your bracelet and you swallow, “After all this time, he still insists on protecting me from-from something. I’m not sure what it is, but he refuses to see that he doesn’t have to carry this burden on his own anymore. That the only way he’ll feel better is if he  _heals_.”

Cedric folds an arm around your shoulders and pulls you close to his side. You sigh, feeling the warmth hum beneath his clothes and caress your skin comfortingly.

“I’m just so scared,” you whisper, voice cracking beneath the weight of your fear, “I can’t lose him, not like I lost mum. If he continues down this road, I’ll have no one. Dad will just work even more and I’ll be completely alone.”

Cedric pulls away, just a little, to raise your chin with his long, elegant fingers so he can level his gaze with yours and hold it with warm benevolence.

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs, softly, “You’ll never be alone. I’ll be with you, always...” he pauses, hesitates, hedges, “...as-as your boyfriend...if you’ll have me...”

Your fears seem to wash away at Cedrics mumbled offer, so gentle, so sweet, so unassuming that it makes your heart swell until it pressed up against the firm wall of your chest.

And then he’s trailing a hand down your cheek and your shuddering, a dark, syrupy warmth pooling in your lower belly from Cedric’s furnace-hot touch and the icy cold sensation clashing together and his pupils are thick molasses, dilated and drinking you in like honey-warm butter beer.

Without even thinking about it, you’re arching up onto the tips of your toes and he’s leaning forward, bending down, closing the distance between the two of you and it’s like magic when your lips brush against each other once, twice, thrice, testing and tasting, electricity sparking beneath the delicate skin of your lips, and then his arm is winding around your waist, and you’re wrapping your arms around his neck and he’s pulling you flush against him and he’s capturing your lips with his own in a warm, delicious embrace and you’re slipping, sliding, sinking into the soft cushion of his lips.

And it’s...

Beautiful.

Angelic.

_Exquisite._

It’s everything a first kiss should be.

Cedric tastes like nectar and sunlight and he smells of ink and aftershave and the deepest, darkest parts of the forest, the parts you’ve always secretly liked, especially after it rains and his hair is silky and thick in your hands, like chocolate melting between the gaps in your fingers, and you’re jelly in his arms, in his grip, as his lips move quickly against yours, dancing to a rhythm you’re not familiar with but excited by nonetheless.

And, suddenly, he’s pushing you up against the wall, and his hands are roaming up and down your body, taking in the curves and edges, and theres a growl stuck at the back of his throat, rumbling against your lips like thunder and it’s desperate and hungry and  _hot_ , hot like a blade of lightning, hot like molten lava, hot like an exploding star and you’re moaning out of sheer want, out of sheer desire, yearning, diving head first into the pool of rich, luxurious heat puttering deliciously in your lower belly, responding to every gentle caress and every searing touch and it’s disarming and it’s empowering and it’s  _shattering_  and, and-

And then Cedric pulls away, and you’re gasping for air, and then you’re moaning because his lips are on you again, except they’re glued to the nape of your neck, tongue laving across the delicate skin and your head spins and you’re spluttering on something between a moan and a mewl and Cedric is so raw, so  _explicit_  like this, so unguarded yet so gentle in your arms, prepared to stop if you uttered the word, generous with his love but careful not to tear through any boundaries.

And then, he kisses you again, and the world that’s always spinning, that’s always buzzing, that’s always shrieking, goes quiet.

And you-

You melt.

Even when Cedric pulls away with gentlemanlike charm, saying that he’s not about to pressure you, saying that he never will, and then you pull him back into a kiss, you still melt.

You melt when you finally decide to break apart and return to the Yule Ball with his hand sitting comfortably on the small of your back, you melt when you stand side-by-side and chat with his friends and your friends and you melt when you drag him onto the dance floor and dance the night away.

You melt, like Cedric is the spring to your winter.

You  _melt_.

* * *

 

 

You wake up with a gasp, surging upright, gripping the sheets and panting, gulping down mouthfuls of air.

There’s no movement, no stirring, no whispered ‘are you alright?’ from Hermione’s bed, mostly because the state of exhaustion last nights festivities had left you all in was strong enough to knock you into a coma. Still, you wake up earlier than usual, greyish-blue light swirling in from the window.

Your nightmare had been so vivid, so real, so strange. You had seen a boy, handsome and young, lying dead in the your father’s study, a black snake sliding out from his blue lips and curling into a circle. You’d tried to back away but bumped into a hard chest, and upon whirling around, you found Luke crying black tears, pale and gaunt, flesh peeling off his bones until all that was left of him was a skull, still leaking black from his eye sockets where his eyes - so youthful and mischievous and carefree - had once been.

You sigh, rubbing your forehead anxiously. Concluding such a wonderful night in a nightmare was something so typical of your anxiety, something so predictable, yet you still hadn’t seen it coming.

Pushing back your bed covers, you sheepishly pad toward the bathroom, rubbing sleep from your eyes as you attempt to wash the remainders of your nightmare away.

Bending down over the sink, you run the faucet and splash water to your face, humming a Weird Sisters song, smiling at the memory of Cedric and his soft, delicate lips nestled comfortably in your mind. Last night was like a daydream, one you had entertained over the summer, like so many before. 

Your daydream had come true, and now, there was nothing stopping you. You didn’t need Nyx’s blood to be on a high, to feel like a young god. 

Switching off the tap absentmindedly, you wipe your face dry with a towel, setting it back on the hook with a small smile and with a careless glance, you check your reflection.

You stop, eyes widening, jaw slackening.

On the other side of the mirror, a nine-foot tall shadow monster stands, staring back at you, grinning with a mouth that splits its entire face in half. Red blood stains it’s row of sharp, long fangs, somehow squeezed into the moon-crescent bend of its sycthe-like smirk. It has no eyes, just a long, oval face, attached to a thin neck and an elongated body with long limbs that seem to hand at its sides. In its back are several long, thin swords, plunged into the ridges of its spine like a pin cushion.

The monster raises long, thin, needle-like fingers and begins to carve something into the mirror, the sound grating in your ears like nails on a chalkboard. Through the paralysing cloudiness of your fear, you barely manage to make out what the monster has etched into the glass.

**_THE TRUTH WILL SET ME FREE_ **

You scream.


End file.
